The First Quarter Quell
by BreathingTimeMachine
Summary: ATTENTION! Sorry to announce, but I'll be on a camping trip for several weeks until July 14th, and will be back writing the following week. Thank you!
1. Liam :: The First Quarter Quell

_Author's Note:__Very first Fanfiction for the Hunger Games! Very excited. This is a story based off what is known already about the First Quarter Quell. The story is told from two perspectives, Liam's and Elise's (hence the name in the chapter title), and hopefully won't be too boring. It gets much more exciting from the Reaping onwards. As always, anything responsible for this story can be attributed to Suzanne Collins and her wonderful Series, **The Hunger Games Trilogy.** Thank you very much for your time to read this. _

Chapter One – Liam – The First Quarter Quell

The Sand Dart is just below the surface of the water.

I breathe slowly, the cool water level with my waist, catching the painted colors of the sunset. I take a step towards the Sand Dart, like the sandy bottom of the shallows are made of old, creaking floorboards. The slightest movement will ruin everything.

I exhale the air sharply from my lungs, and shoot the spear into the water. As it breaks the surface, the Sand Dart disappears in a murky cloud of sediment. But I feel the spearhead stick firmly into the ground, and when I pull it out of the water, there it is: sleek, about as long as my forearm, and on the end of the spear.

"Well, if looks could kill, you'd get a lot more fish," Isaac's voice says. I look up and see him, his slight body outlined in the sun, his net holding at least twice my catch. Isaac drops his head and squints dramatically, an impersonation I can only assume to be of me. "You'd catch more with a net like this one, though."

"I'm not that bad with a net," I tell Isaac, though when he tilts his head in disagreement, we can't help laughing. "Okay, so I'm not a pro, but I do need practice with spear-fishing before promotion exams come up."

Here in District Four, promotion exams are everything. They're held at the end of every year, and every apprentice fisher is required to take them. The objective is simple: pass your year's exam, and you move up to a different Fishing Sector. That is, you get tougher techniques, more dangerous fish, and much better pay. They're the reason I'm in the same Sector with Isaac, who's sixteen, while I'm eighteen.

I should be ahead of him, but my family and I are still adjusting to District Four. We moved here several years ago from District Three, when my father was given a job offer as head engineer for a string of processing plants in town, and even in the Justice Building. To my father, anything is better than a twelve-hour day on the assembly lines, so we moved. I'm still trying to make up for the lost time when it comes to my skills in fishing, though.

At least the day is finally over. Since Isaac and I are the last ones to leave our Sector for the day, we had back to the prep rooms, a collection of salt-soaked wooden outposts, to clean up. We really should have left earlier, because today is the day President Anderson will announce the First Quarter Quell ever. People have been talking about it for months, some even years. The additional twist will mean the 25th annual Hunger Games will be the most exciting yet. That is, for those who actually enjoy them.

After turning in my day's catch to our Sector administrator, I go to clean the Sand Dart. Most fish in District Four are sent to one of the processing plants for distribution all over to Panem, but the fishermen who work in the Sectors get to take one or two fish home every day, freshly caught. As I scale and wrap up the fish, Isaac hoses down the metal prep tables and makes sure the lockers are in order. We try and keep the conversation away from tonight's announcement, but it still hangs in the air like the smell of fish. I say goodbye to Isaac for the weekend, dress in record time, and leave the outposts practically running. You'd think I was in a race.

Because she's leaning against the wooden railing, has been waiting, her long blonde hair tied up and out of her face. When our eyes meet, she smiles. I extend my arms, as if to embrace her. The girl, Elise, takes the towel she has draped over the rail and throws it to me. Catching it, I tell her, "I wanted a hug, not a towel," but I accept it anyway and rub my hair and face dry after fishing in the shallows all day. We start walking down the street, more into town.

Elise laughs. "Sorry, Liam. The parents aren't too happy with me right now. And if I come home with saltwater on my clothes, they won't buy 'I'm at the beach' anymore."

"I would have washed off in the bathhouse if I had known." I say.

"No don't worry about it! We would miss the Quarter Quell announcement if you did that." Elise tells me. "Since you rinse and repeat so much."

"Hey, the salt doesn't come off by itself. Besides, it's a good thing I stayed late. Look what I got you!" I take out the Sand Dart, wrapped in parchment and wax paper.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like dead fish," Elise says with a grin, but her gratitude is unmistakably sincere.

I can't blame Elise for the towel thing. We've been together for a little over two years now, but we're from completely opposite parts of town. District Four is by far one of the wealthiest Districts in Panem. Though I fish like most every other teenager eligible to, most of their parents have merchant or administrative or business jobs. My dad's work as an engineer hasn't been as lucrative as hoped, which really leads us to scrape by some months.

We're by no means starving, but my family has never been able to afford certain luxuries, or the special Training Academy the Hunger Games Careers attend before they are reaped. Elise's family, on the other hand, is one of the wealthiest in the District, owning the largest processing plant out of the entire market.

"So I take it your parents aren't okay with you watching the announcement at my place?"

Elise turns the package over in her hands and answers, "Yeah, no, they are." Even though she sounds uncertain, I don't say anything further. We just walk to my house, our long shadows trailing behind us.

Our place is on the edge of town, thankfully close to the Fishing Sectors. It's big enough for my parents, my sister and I comfortably. The neighborhood itself is a little crowded, the paths are sandy, with the trees and shrubs casting patterns of shade and sunlight over everything. Despite that a lot of the houses look similar, there's no other neighborhood where the smell of salt and the rustle of the ocean hang in the air.

When we arrive, my mother is stirring fish stew for supper, her long dark tresses hanging down her back. My father hasn't come home from work yet – my guess is he is still back at one of the processing plants, diagnosing one of the many machines with a complicated problem, or handling another claim at the Justice Building. My younger sister, Anna, is home, sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of stew in front of her. Elise and I follow suit and fill our own bowls with rice and the fish stew, thick with tomatoes, onions, and peppers. We sit down at the table and turn on the television.

"Did they bite today?" Anna asks conversationally. Her hair's little lighter than mine, and very straight, so it's pulled back in a loose bun, the image of what my mother when she was young.

"Yeah. I can't wait to get promoted though," I say into my stew. Anna rubs my matted, damp hair, like I am suddenly eight years old again. "It took me forever to get it like this!" I protest. But, just when she's finished laughing, the Anthem of Panem suddenly pierces the conversation, a sound so recognizable we turn our heads immediately to see the Capitol emblem glowing on the screen.

We all move over to the couch in front of the television, Elise holding my hand tightly. When it fades, a Capitol audience materializes as the camera pans around the enormous amphitheatre. From the speakers, the announcer's voice rings out with clarity and measured precision: "Ladies and gentlemen, President Anderson!"

The camera settles into a view of the ornate, polished marble stage in front of the Capitol crowd. President Anderson appears from the side of the stage, and starts walking to the front of the platform, where a gilded podium has been situated for him. On each side, he is flanked by two Peacekeepers, dressed in their white and black-trimmed uniforms. He is about sixty years old, with streaks of gray in his black hair, particularly at the temples. The years he's been serving as President have aged his face much more, however. The audience, a sea of artificially colored, augmented creatures displaying the latest fashion trends in Panem, can hardly contain themselves. They are more excited for the first Quarter Quell than anyone in the entire country.

After all, their favorite game is about to get a new set of rules.

He stares at the audience in front of him for a moment evenly, then directs his hardened, even gaze into the camera lens. President Anderson's voice booms across the audience, and in our living room. "People of Panem, I am addressing you tonight about a milestone in our country's history since the first Hunger Games themselves. The first Quarter Quell, a special version of the Hunger Games to commemorate its twenty-fifth incarnation, will take place this year."

The audience borders on feral. I look at Elise, and she grips my hand tighter. I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to me. "The special addition to this year's Games has been predetermined since their inception," the President continues. Just then, a fifth Peacekeeper arrives, carrying a glossy, dark wooden box. The camera is trained on the chest as President Anderson reveals a thin gold key and unlocks the latch keeping it closed. He then pulls back the lid, revealing rows of ivory-white envelopes neatly lined up in the interior.

Anderson picks the first one, breaks the seal on the envelope, and pulls out a thick piece of parchment from inside. The silence on screen, and in the living room, is so thick, so palpable, that I can feel the faint rushing of Elise's pulse in our interlocked hands. My breath catches in my chest just when President Anderson reads, "For the first Quarter Quell, to remind the Districts they caused the rebellion and violence that led to the Hunger Games, the tributes will be voted on by the people of their own District."

There's deafening applause on screen, but no one's stirred in the living room. Only one clear thought forms in my head then. The best, the oldest, the most dangerous. That is who the Districts will pick to represent them, because the tributes with the greatest chances of winning will be by far the deadliest.

Elise's other hand is on my forearm now, and the words escape from her, thoughts she didn't want me to hear. "Oh, Liam." The words are heavy, weighed down by what I can only assume is fear and worry. It hits me all the same.

President Anderson is still continuing. "There are, however, a few stipulations to be made for these Games. First, under Panem's privacy laws, no citizen of Panem may disclose their own or another's vote during anytime, no exceptions."

"Don't worry." I turn to Elise, her dark blue eyes shining, and squeeze her hand, a ship and its anchor. "There are lots of other girls who train with you in the Academy, so your chances aren't bad at all."

"Second," Anderson says, almost in the background now, "every adult over eighteen must vote, and will have two weeks from today to do so, no exceptions."

"It's not me I'm worried about, Liam," she whispers, voice shaking.

"Third, as the whole point of the Quarter Quell is to have the Districts choose their tributes, no volunteering will be entertained, no exceptions."

I don't have to ask Elise who she's worried about, because she then tells me right then. "I'm worried about you."

As a closing, President Anderson finishes with his standard air of promptness. "The official rules for this year's Quarter Quell can be found in your District's Justice Building. I know this year's Hunger Games will be the best yet. Good night, and may the odds be ever in your favor."


	2. Elise :: Reaping

_Author's Note:_ _Same information in the first Chapter! This is from Elise's POV. Things are going to start moving super fast now! Let me know what you think. Were you surprised by the outcome?_**  
**

Chapter Two – Elise – The Reaping

The two weeks President Anderson allotted Panem for voting goes by too fast. The night the Quarter Quell announcement was made, I told Liam I was worried about him getting picked. Of course, Liam did all he could to convince me otherwise.

"I'm not exactly the best when it comes to fishing, you know. District Four doesn't want a transplant representing them, anyway." Liam reassured me that night, an edge in his voice. But he just told me that to make me feel better. He's eighteen, like me, and though he didn't go to the Training Academy where a lot of boys do, he's just as tall and strong and powerful as the rest of them.

"Don't call yourself that!"I said angrily. A lot of the kids our age in Four have taken to calling Liam 'transplant,' because he's from District Three.

The night was so deep as we walked to my house, you could almost swim in its darkness. The air seemed unnaturally cold, the kind that sinks past your clothes and straight through your skin.

"Well, if a lot of people know about Graham, then they won't vote for you," I finished quietly. Liam doesn't talk about Graham much. Even if it comes in passing, maybe at dinner, recalling an old family story, something in his eyes change. The dark blue that is usually so bright and alert… it dulls, just slightly.

Even though it's been eight years.

And it happened there, that night, the instant I said it. Liam's eyes lost their light, and he looked down. "Yeah, I hope so," was all he replied. Though he pulled me close, and accepted my apology, my stomach was sick and knotted with guilt the whole night.

The day of the Reaping, I wake up late in the morning and take a long shower, trying to scrub away my anxiety with hot water and soap. When I get out of the bathroom, I'm not surprised in the least that my mother has laid out a white dress on my bed. My parents, along with most everyone else in my neighborhood, try to treat the Reaping like some celebration. I know District Four is a Career District, but I've never cared for the Hunger Games much. Never understand how the older girls, my classmates, spend so much time getting ready for a drawing and then volunteer like they can't wait to get in the arena. And Liam, being from District Three, doesn't consider it his favorite thing either, which, of course, only draws more scorn from the boys in his year.

I put on the dress anyway, and go downstairs and eat. Try to be polite and act excited while my parents compliment me. "I think there's a good chance Elise will be chosen," my father says to no one in particular over coffee and business reports. His name's Bane Ballas, and he owns one of the largest processing plants in Four. Our house is on the opposite side of town from Liam, where a lot of families like us live too. But the houses are too big and cold, like they're hardly lived in.

"Well, we've certainly put in enough money into her training," my mother replies. "Is Liam excited?" The way she says Liam's name sends my blood cold.

I take a moment, staring at my toast, to find the best selection of words. "Definitely, I think… Mom, Dad, can I go? I'm supposed to meet Liam in the forum." When I see my mother's face, I add, "Please? It's the Reaping…"

She gives a tight-lipped nod, and I'm out the door. I walk down the cobblestone street and in the direction of the forum. Liam comes around the corner, on his way to my house. His dark brown hair, usually part-way in his eyes or disheveled from being in the water, has been combed back, and he's in a white button-down.

He grins as the distance between us gets shorter. "You're beautiful in that dress, Ellie, but—" he drops his voice to an embarrassed whisper, " – don't you think the white washes you out a bit? I mean, you're already so-o pale."

I laugh, because while I'm not pale, Liam's days of fishing have given him almost an irreversibly golden, tanned complexion. "Speak for yourself; you're looking like you could use a little color." As we walk to the square, through registration, and into the spot roped off for the eighteens, Liam and I don't really talk about anything important. Over the years, it's just become pointless trying to ignore the Reaping when its knocking at your door.

Out of the noise of the gathering crowd, I hear the voice of a boy in our year, Charles, shout, "Hey, Elise, you're still with the transplant?" in mock astonishment. His group around him is delighted, and follows up with a round of equally irritating remarks.

"Yeah, Charles, and not with you," I reply as if it were a normal, civilized conversation. I turn to Liam, feeling anger flood my face with heat and redness. "I should really tell him how I feel."

Liam shakes his head, smiling. "No, he's an ass, you know that."

"And completely desperate. He'd hit on anything with four limbs and a heartbeat."

"And he's probably willing to compromise from that point on," Liam adds judiciously.

There are only about ten minutes left until the ceremony begins, so Liam kisses me goodbye and walks off to the boys' group, while I go to the girls'. The air's turbulent with the multitude of conversations; it seems to move and hums like a swarm of bees. The sun is relentless, too, beating down on the crowd. My blonde hair is still damp from the shower this morning, now clinging to my neck from the sweat and humidity. The clock above the bait shop couldn't be moving any slower.

Finally, four people emerge from the Justice Building's doors: the District Four Escort, Rutledge Harding, Mayor Roberts, and two of our victors, Harper Wren and Addison Balemen. Harper won the second Hunger Games twenty-three years ago, and Addison won eight years ago. Murmurs and rustles travel through the crowd like a wave as everyone realizes Harper Wren will be a mentor this year. He hardly ever leaves his mansion in Victor's Village, and judging by the response, this must be the first public appearance he's made with his new crop of white hair.

"Welcome, everyone," Mayor Roberts begins. "We would like to wish everyone happy Hunger Games and good luck before we begin." There's no drawing this year, just two envelopes, each holding one tribute's name. But before they can be opened, the Mayor says, we have to revisit Panem's history. And we do. He gives the same Capitol-issued statement he does every year, of a land in turmoil and chaos, the rising of Panem and it's thirteen districts, and the rebellion and Dark Days which led to the Hunger Games and Thirteen's destruction.

A lot of the parents here actually have memories of the rebellion and the Treaty of Treason, but it's considered taboo to talk about it outside of school and textbooks.

Finally, the actual Reaping itself. Rutledge Harding, the paragon of Capitol vanity, has spared no expense this year. He's been doing this for twenty-five years, and hasn't aged a bit, according to my parents. Sure, a lot of people in District Four don't "age," so long as their pockets are deep enough for the surgeries and treatments. But Rutledge is ridiculous: porcelain skin, short purple hair, tight face, and an outrageously tailored white suit.

He holds two envelopes up in the air, like trophies about to be presented. "Now, these aren't marked, so we'll see who's first: boy or girl." Ugh. I'm always surprised by how slippery and high his voice is. Nevertheless, he opens the first envelope, takes out the card, and stares at the name for a moment.

"Senneth Orrick."

I immediately feel everyone's eyes on me, and my stomach is at my feet. Senneth Orrick, the boy I played with by the creek, who taught me how to make a fishhook, who I haven't spoken to in years, has been picked for the Hunger Games. He emerges out of the eighteens, and I think of how my parents almost hated him then as much as they do Liam now.

Sen comes from a fishing family like Liam, but his mother is too sick to work. Luckily, he and his father are some of the best fishers in town, and manage to do well enough. When we were friends, I would pretend I was on a growth spurt so my mother packed me two lunches. Then, after school, Sen and I would sit by the creek and eat the second like a picnic. But he's tall now, well-built, and better with a spear than most. And that's a straight shot to the Hunger Games.

Rutledge opens the next envelope. Senneth's name shocked me, but in no way prepares me for the next name called. The name which rips my entire world apart, and sends my spirit into the ground.

"Liam Heron."

He walks emerges from the crowd, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Every step Liam takes makes a distinct sound with the white-washed stone. If District Four wasn't looking at me when Senneth was called, they are now. I feel thousands of pairs of eyes trained on me. Thousands of spotlights that make it unbearably hot. I can feel the redness in my cheeks, how badly my throat hurts. I close my eyes, which causes tears to leak out from both lids and down my face. I wipe them away with the heel of my hand, and when I try to take a step towards him, the girls in front of me are as solid as iron. I'm angry that they're trying to block me, but what would I say to get Liam off that stage?

Rules are rules.

I look up, and Liam is with Senneth, under the red-and-gold Capitol flags. The stage's too far, the sun too bright, to read his expression. It's apparent this must be confusing for Rutledge, though. There's no protocol or procedure for this. He excuses himself, and is swiftly followed into the Justice Building by the Mayor. Harper Wren and Addison Balemen survey the crowd, like kids left in charge of a class when the teacher has an emergency.

Fifteen minutes pass.

Chairs are brought out for Liam and Senneth.

They sink into them like lead.

Thirty minutes gone.

Finally, nearly forty-five minutes after Liam's name being called, Rutledge Harding and Mayor Roberts emerge from the Justice Building and take their places on the platform once again. Rutledge takes the microphone. "Where is Holly David?"

A slender and willowy fifteen –year-old girl takes the stage, her wispy blonde hair in a single braid. Rutledge announces she is the girl with the most votes. I'm puzzled. Liam and Senneth don't surprise me. Despite their lack of training at the Academy, they are strapping, muscular, and must have good aim to fish. Holly David is the youngest of a very large family. She doesn't take that many classes at the Training Academy, and she doesn't have much renown for her skills.

"Though Holly David is the selected girl tribute, Senneth Orrick and Liam Heron have tied votes for the male tribute." Rutledge announces. "We've brought this issue, after careful recalculation, to President Anderson. He has given us a unique opportunity. Since the tributes were voted on by the people of District Four, the three tributes today will vote on which one they will take out of the Games. Provided, they do not vote for themselves. The tributes will have five minutes to decide on whom to exempt."

The five minutes pass, but they aren't needed. They should have allotted five seconds. Liam and Senneth have much better chances of getting through the Games than Holly David, who is dwarfed in between them on the stage. Besides, given that she is fifteen, in this Quarter Quell, she would be one of the youngest.

Rutledge asks Senneth who he voted for. "Holly David," he says in a shaky voice.

Rutledge asks Liam. "Holly," he agrees, staring into the crowd. Straight where I'm standing.

Thankfully, Mayor Roberts prevents the ceremony from going on any longer. Holly David, already on the verge of tears from the time she was on the stage, breaks down sobbing in her mother's arms when she's allowed to leave the stage.

Exempt.

Safe.

Alive.

I can't allow myself to be angry with her, though. It's not her fault. But, as Liam and Senneth are ushered into the Justice Building, I can't help but think one thing.

Who voted for Liam?


	3. Liam :: Last Words

_A/N: Hey guys! So.. Chapter Three! A little character development in here. Get's a little morbid, but hey, it's The Hunger Games. A special shout-out to **13ASB**, who reviewed the first two chapters! Alright. Just going to stop. Read! Review! Thank you! - BTM_

Chapter Three – Liam – The Last Words

The Justice Building is cold.

That is the first thing I register. Next, someone has their hand between my shoulder blades, and is pushing me forward. There is a reception area we rush past, and several hallways. I know Senneth is no longer with me; they parted the tributes from the very beginning. Another hand opens a pair of double doors and sends me through them. Just as quickly, they close behind my back.

I slowly sit down onto a leather couch. The furniture is all either leather or richly upholstered. Dark, heavy wood. Thick curtains. Richly colored paintings. Deep red walls.

But I can't get rid of the cold.

Maybe this is the Reaping just starting to hit me, like the blood has drained away from my limbs to my head to keep me thinking straight. I never thought hearing your name could hit you like a train. After that moment, the first person I thought of when my name was called wasn't Elise. It was Anna.

This isn't the first time Anna's had a brother in the Hunger Games.

Eight years ago, my brother, Graham, was reaped for District Three when he was fifteen. My parents didn't want Anna and me to watch the Games, since we were only eight and ten respectively. We would always creep out of bed, though, and watch the recaps late at night.

The seventeenth Games had been slow that year, with the deaths unexciting and the bets low. The Head Gamemaker was under a lot of scrutiny, and pulled out the most nightmarish mutt imaginable. There were eight tributes left, my brother Graham among them. To every family's horror, the tributes were attacked by a flesh-and-blood Gamemaker creature resembling a loved one of theirs. Technically they were muttations, bred in a laboratory. They weren't animals; the mutts looked exactly like humans. But they didn't have emotions, of course. They were programmed to kill their assigned target from a Gamemaker's control room. Each tribute was faced with a task: murder a perfectly replicated, blood-thirsty version of your brother or sister, mother or father. Or they would rip you apart.

Three tributes died, and almost all the rest went insane. Graham was murdered by an identical copy of my father that night, as Anna and I watched on the floor, in the darkness of the living room.

When I see the faces of my family, Anna, and my parents… I'm speechless. Tears stream down my sister's face, like the wounds from eight years ago have opened again. I hug her, trying to make the last memory of her as strong as I can. Anna. My little sister. She's suddenly eight years old again, crying against me as Graham's cannon fires on television. Anna tells me I have to come back. "You just have to."

"I know, I will." I promise when she breaks away.

My father hugs me next. I know out of all of us Graham's murder by the mutt affects him the most. He hasn't been the same since, but he's still my father, determined and optimistic. That's how he's always been. "Come back soon alright?" His blue eyes, a mirror to mine, are shining with tears. I think of how he said goodbye to Graham. Is he more hopeful this time? That I'm older than Graham was, or have lived in District Four? When we're finished talking, I realize I have under a minute left with my family.

"Alright," I agree. My mother is last. There's this thing about my mother: she's not wasteful, even with words. When she talks, you listen, and she listens when you talk.

"I love you, Liam. Don't forget it. We'll be waiting for you." Is all she says, and kisses my forehead.

We talk for a few more moments. I guess there's really no perfect way to say goodbye for something like this, but eventually they do have to leave. You always wonder if you made the most of it.

The next visitor surprises me, because it's Isaac, my fishing partner. "Hey man," he says a little sheepishly. Isaac and I haven't become close through conversation and hanging out, but spending most of my afternoons with him, working in the shallows, definitely has.

"The Games are going to be really tough this year," Isaac states matter-of-factly. "But you're good. I know that for a fact."

I thank him, and when he goes I shake his hand and put a hand on his shoulder. Isaac's about to close the door, when he adds, almost an afterthought, "You know, they'll probably have spears in there. But don't forget about trying to make a net, too."

I nod, and he's gone.

Only one more goodbye now.

Within seconds, she's in my arms. Apologizing for the tears on my shirt. Even in a moment like this, Elise makes me smile, as she tries to wipe the dark spot out of the white fabric.

"I love you." Elise says. But it's never been said like that before. She's whispered it in quiet moments, and as a temporary goodbye in the middle of the day. But never with so much sadness and tenderness and pain. "I wish you didn't have to go."

"I love you too." I tell her. Even my own voice shocks me. The emotion behind it doesn't, because I remember all the fights we've had, the laughs, everything. But something else does. The finality in it. A part of me has already accepted that these will be our last words. "I'll win, though. But you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"You can't watch the Games. I don't want you to. I wish I hadn't watched Graham's. It'll just be better for you that way. In case… you know…"

"I'm going to watch them," Elise disagrees firmly. "You never know, maybe I could help you or something. Send in money for a sponsor…"

The guard is at the door, trying to get Elise to leave with him. She has one final thing to do, though. Elise pulls a woven bracelet off her wrist. I know immediately what it is. She's brilliant with knots, and she's spent a lot of time figuring out the best combinations for certain nets. The bracelet is made up of different woven strings, all varying colors and textures. She untwists it and slides it through my left hand. "So you have something from District Four," she explains.

And then, in our final moments together, we kiss.

It's not teary-eyed or overly emotional. It's gentle, almost calming, slowing my heart and my mind. Elise and I exchange our last goodbyes, our last smiles, and the guard slams the door shut.

The car ride doesn't consist of much.

Rutledge Harding knows how Reaping days go, and is more than content to leave the trip to the train station silent. Senneth gave me a small, sad smile before getting into the car, but has since been staring at the shops and houses rolling past the window. I've seen Capitol trains before, passing in the distance or on television, but not like this. They're long and sleek and silver, just like a Sand Dart. We are taken onboard and to our rooms just as the train starts moving. It's true what they say about them, how it goes faster than anything else in the entire country. If it weren't for the blur outside the windows, you wouldn't know you were on a train.

Despite recent events, it's hard not to be overwhelmed by the luxury. My room alone has thousands of dollars put into it, with the large bed and its soft golden sheets. The television is longer than my arm span, and hangs on the wall, just as thin and delicate as a painting. The bathroom is carved almost entirely from black, polished stone.

After my shower, when I open the closet, I'm puzzled as to why the outfits are already planned on their hangers. It reminds me too much of when my mother dressed me for school. While it seems silly, I take a shirt and sweater from one outfit, pants from another, and shoes from a third to combine them for some sense of self-control. If the Capitol has primary control of my life, I'm at least going to have primary control of my clothes. They match in any event, and I go to the Dining Car for supper.

Everyone starts talking about how good the food is when the salad comes out. By the time we're on the cauliflower soup, a full-bodied conversation even starts. Everything has a reduction or a garnish, and the bread basket never gets halfway empty. Rutledge, insisting he's on a diet, takes a call mid-soup and doesn't come back for the rest of dinner.

Senneth and I are really only meeting Harper and Addison for the first time. Harper's hair is a premature shade of white due to the Games. Being only the second victor, the Games were very jarring for him. From what I've heard, the arena that year was especially difficult for all the tributes, but him in particular.

Addison Balemen on the other hand, has the most to say of anyone. She's only twenty-five, and the type of person who talks about anything with relative ease. Her hair's the hue of honey, and short. She tousles it when she talks on occasion. "So, do you two fish in the same Sector?" she asks Senneth and me.

We look at each other. "I'm in Sector Six. Aren't you in Sector Eight, Senneth?" I remark.

"Yeah, but that's only because you had a late start." He says with a grin, and resumes cutting his steak.

Senneth and I keep up the rest of the conversation, Addison punctuating it with dry remarks ("You think the Hunger Games will be hard? Try mentoring with Rutledge as your escort.").

Harper throughout the dinner only replies in yes-or-no answers, cleaning his plate at each course. He's far more interested in the chocolate cake at the end of the meal than discussing any Games strategy.

At ten-o'-clock, we all head to the Lounge Car to watch the recap of the Reapings. The tributes from Districts One and Two are all giant, muscular, and pleased (if not excited) as they take the stage. There's a girl who is tall and slender from Two who is almost bored as she takes her place. It's hard to characterize the other tributes reaped from the poorer Districts, though. It's apparent they don't train for the Games, or even take an interest in them. Another girl from seven, and a boy from nine, seems fairly pleased to be reaped, however.

But one thing is clear: all these tributes aren't to be underestimated. The only District who hasn't had a victor yet is Twelve, so each part of the country is undoubtedly capable of producing someone lethal. The youngest tribute is sixteen, while most are eighteen, and a few are seventeen.

Holly David, reaped at fifteen in our District, would have been the youngest tribute if she wasn't exempted.

All the contestants look fairly well-fed and imposing. Even the ones from Eleven and Twelve don't resemble the typical half-starved entries from years' past. An announcer in a bright red suit with pink hair reminds everyone watching the tribute parade will be tomorrow, and signs off. I go back to the room, take off the sweater, and start unbuttoning my dress shirt when there's a knock on my door.

"One moment!" I yell, re-buttoning my shirt halfway. I open the door and Addison is standing there, in a silk nightgown. Without asking, she walks into my bedroom, closing the door. And locking it.

"Oh, don't look so scared." Addison sighs when I start buttoning the rest of my shirt. "I just need to talk. And this is private, so no interruptions." She sits on the bed and pats the space next to her. When I join her on the bed, she says, "We need to talk about something. Do you know that I was in the same Games as your brother eight years ago?"

I hesitate for a moment before replying. "Yes, but I…I'm not mad at you, though, if that's what you mean. You didn't kill him."

Her face relaxes a little. "I was seventeen when I won, Liam. And even now, it's hard not to think about them. The other tributes. I saw all those families on the Victory Tour the year after I won, but when I came to District Three, your family was the worst. I mean, your little sister's name is Anna, right?"

I nod.

"When I saw you and Anna, so young, and your parents, I just… I just thought no one should have to go through that at that age. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I can't bring all those tributes back, but I'm going to try and help you win." She speaks slowly and deliberately, each pause hanging in the air like its own thought. "And I guess that's the least I can do to repay you."

"You don't owe me anything." I remind her.

"I know you think that, but trust me. I won because twenty-three other kids lost." She explains. I'm surprised. Addison, this slinky, confident, sharp-witted mentor, hates herself for winning the Hunger Games. Despite her exterior, which I don't doubt as part of her personality, she thinks she's in debt.

I think to ask her it as she gets up from the bed. When she's nearly to the door, it escapes past my lips. "Who did they model your mutt after?" I ask with immediate regret.

She turns, her green eyes reflecting the light in the room. Smiling, Addison replies, "I have an identical twin sister. They used her for the mutt."

"How did you do it? Kill it?"

She gives this some thought, looking at me with a concentrated gaze. "I just pretended it was me. Then it wasn't hard at all."


	4. Elise :: First Encounters

_Author's Note: Chapter Four! Woo! Some background on Liam and Elise's relationship and the tribute parade. A huge, HUGE shoutout to my friend, Paper Space, for the many and helpful reviews! Chapter Five will be all about training, and then Elise's next chapter will be the dropping of the bombshell! Read! Review! Thank you! - BTM_

Chapter Four – Elise – The First Encounters

One of the things I love most about Liam is his ability to make me feel safe. Comfortable. Like he always has the sense of what to say, and exactly when to say it.

The first time I met Liam, though, I couldn't have been more uncomfortable.

My mother had sent me to the market to get the ingredients for supper. The farmer's market, a little ways off the public square where Reapings are held, bustles constantly. Vendors sell their produce, meats, and a few wares in an open-aired, shaded venue the District built some years ago. I walked around the cobblestone-paved grounds for a short time, buying from the sellers I was most familiar with. I was paying for my last purchase when someone shouted. At first I didn't think anything of it, but then a round of raucous crashes cleaved the conversations in the market.

And then I was on the ground, the skin on my calf burning where it scraped against the stones. Some where in my lap, but they were all over the ground, surrounding me like a puddle. Dead fish, still wet, shining in the sunlight.

"Damn it!" I heard him hiss. When I looked up, there was a boy, about fifteen. His dark hair was untidy, and he was sitting across from me, in the same predicament. An empty wood crate was by his side. "I am so sorry!" He got up, nearly slipping, and extended his hand. It must have been the shock, because I didn't say anything as he hoisted me up. He continued to look at me with blue, confused eyes. "…Uh, are you okay?"

"Yes," I got out. At the time, with people starting to laugh at the situation, and my shorts and shirt covered in fish water, it was hard not to be self-conscious. Or want to run.

"My first day on the job, and all I had to do was carry the fish to the market. And I still screwed it up." He said, maybe to himself. "Uh… listen, can I do anything to make this up to you?"

"No, I'm fine." I had already picked up my grocery bags, which were still in good condition, and was preparing to get out of the market as fast as I could. I offered to help him clean up, but he acted completely offended, and then said he would get it.

That was summer, almost three years ago. About three weeks later, we had school beginning. My first day of school, I had Fishing Basics, which every student in District Four has to take, since so many plan to go into fishing at some point. The same boy, the one from the market, sat in the row over from me. After class that day, I took a shortcut to my house that cut through one of the nearby parks. I guess he must have had the same idea, because we met again about in the center of the park.

"Hey! It's you, from the market," he said. "I'm Liam." He pauses, then adds, "Heron."

"Elise Ballas," I tell him. He raises his eyebrows.

"That wouldn't happen to be the same Ballas that owns that processing plant across town?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, I almost got a job there," he said. "But I decided to fish instead. We have plenty of plants and factories in District Three, so it seemed pointless to do the same over here."

"You're from District Three?" I asked, surprised. I'd never heard of anyone moving Districts before.

"Yeah, my dad got a job offer." He grins. Liam then wanted to know then if I had recovered from our first encounter, and I told him I had, to his relief. A lot of our earlier conversations went like that. For the longest time, Liam was convinced I hated him for crashing into me with a crate of dead fish. So, for the first couple weeks, we would be working, talking, or just sitting, listening in class. Liam would lean in, and whisper, "Are you sure?" half serious, half-joking. I would try to vary my answer every time.

Liam just had, still has, that affect. Making you smile, laugh, loosen up to anything.

"Elise, why aren't you eating?" my father asks, his brow furrowed. "We had them make your favorite." I look at him from across the long dining room table, and then at my plate of roasted fish. He runs a hand over his tired eyes and his silvered hair, shaved close to his head. He's wearing one of his many ties; this one a deep cobalt. Clasping his hands together and shaking them, my father says, "Honey, I know you're upset, but you have to eat."

Upset. The word doesn't even come close to what I'm feeling. "I know, but I have no appetite." I insist. "Can I just go to the Herons'? I promised Anna I would watch the tribute parade with her."

"Absolutely not," my mother says almost immediately, wiping her mouth with a napkin. She takes a sip from her wine glass, and sets it down. "Elise, we've talked about this. You go out almost every night. You really need to spend some time here, at home, with your family."

"Well, Katherine, she did promise…"

"She shouldn't be making promises without our permi-"

"If you let me go," I suggest, "I won't go out the rest of the week. We can even watch the interviews together, if you want."

My mother sits back in her chair, letting out a long, exasperated sign. "Well, Bane?"

Pulling the sleeve of his dress shirt back, my father looks at his watch, and then at me. "You better get going if you don't want to miss the beginning."

My feet fly underneath me as I run to the Heron's. The cobblestones are still wet from the afternoon's thunderstorm, which has left the sky cool and gray, and the air clean and damp. Soon enough I'm halfway to the Herons', and the cobblestones give way to the white-washed, stone-paved roads of the public square. Hardly anyone is out tonight – they're all at home, eating supper, waiting for the tribute parade to begin, that, like so much of the Hunger Games, is mandatory to watch. I try to push dinner out of my mind, but it keeps clawing its way back in, flooding my mind with new emotions every time.

For the past three years, my parents have been nothing but cold to Liam. They want me to be with someone else, maybe a son of another processing plant owner, or one of the rich merchants. But how many times have those boys bragged and dreamed to me about being a Career? Going into the Games and coming back with blood on their hands and money in their overflowing pockets. How could my parents expect me to fall in love with someone like that?

Their answer is always the same.

"You need to start thinking about the future."

But I have.

The white-washed stone starts to turn to a simple paved road, winding towards the sea. Now salt hangs in the stirring, misty air.

The first time my parents met Liam, we were inseparable. We were walking around town, just after school. We had gone to the bait shop, and I was showing Liam all the kinds of knots he'd have to know for our Fishing Basics exam, much to his dismay ("Okay, I could understand the last knot, but THIS one? THAT'S impossible."), when my parents must have spotted us through the window glass. They approached us, exchanged hellos, and were perfectly friendly to Liam. Until my father asked the question that changed everything.

"So, Liam, where do you live? Why haven't we seen you around before?"

Liam explained how his family had moved from District Three. And then, "We live by the Fishing Sectors, where I work. I think you guys call it the 'Isle,' around here, right?" It was an innocent answer. Liam was right. The part of town where he lived was far enough away from the rest of it, and mostly surrounded by water anyway, to earn the name.

But what my parents associate with the Isle, like so many of their friend and neighbors, is trouble. They are wrong of course. Misguided. The one thing about my parents that holds them against Liam, and previously, Senneth, is stubbornness. I've inherited the trait, but only in a much different way.

Finally, my flip flops kick up the sand that dusts the path to the Herons' bungalow, warmly-lit and shrouded in green. I feel the rough grains breeze past my skin as they're lifted into the air.

"Sorry I'm late," I say when I walk into the Herons' living room. Anna and her parents are on the couch, the television playing a commercial. "Did I miss anything?"

"Just in time," Anna informs me, grinning. The sun has lightened her hair and given her skin a rosy pink color. "Do you want something to eat?"

"No, I'm fine," I say as I take my spot.

The Capitol broadcaster reads her lines with too much enthusiasm, and that, combined with her thick makeup, gives her an unsettling expression. Thankfully, they cut away from her and she comments, unseen, for the rest of the show as the tributes come down through the Capitol avenue, and into the City Circle. The twelve chariots, drawn by black horses, forge down the boulevard as the Capitol spectators pack onto the pavement and special stands constructed just for the occasion. The lampposts, screens, and lights burn through the hazy darkness of the city's night.

Coming around the corner, they're up first. District One.

No surprise, they are glamorous and haughty in matching white costumes, with capes flowing down their backs. The fabric is studded with something resplendent, maybe crystals or diamonds. The tributes look almost like they're shining. I don't for one second doubt the authenticity of the embellishments. Their stylists are in charge of the richest District, and are not about to spare any expense.

District Two has been styled more austerely this year, in mostly leather and metal, attributed to their masonry tradition. Mostly they just end up looking sullen, like the costume is too hot or scratchy, to give off a good impression for the cameras. It doesn't make them look any less intimidating, though. The girl in particular gives the crowd a disinterested gaze. Is it all part of their image this year?

District Three passes by, in well-fitted, metallic jumpsuits, looking timid and nervous.

And then District Four.

The camera focuses on Liam and Senneth's chariot, and everyone in the room can't help but smile and praise the District Four stylists. At first, they appear to be wearing armor, covering the torsos, legs, and arms. But as the lights play off the thousands of small plates comprising the armor, it begins to glint and change. From silver to blue. From Blue to green. From green to silver. And a million other shades that gives the impression of fish scales. It actually is quite beautiful. I can't help smiling, thinking of Liam in the remake center, as they scrub and powder and oil him for his first time representing District Four. And even Senneth, allowing his thick, dark blonde hair to be combed and slicked back.

The two boys from Four. I can tell already the crowd is in love. Liam waving, smiling, and Senneth pretending to catch kisses blown from the girl admirers, really get the audience going.

A good gauge of a costume's success can be found in the Capitol spectator's cheers. As the tribute chariots roll on, One, Four, and Seven, surprisingly, gain the most favor. Most outfits are uncreative and repeats of overdone hits. But the tributes from Seven could be fairies from the forest, the way the green and brown paint is swirled onto their skin, and how the fabric hangs carefully on their bodies, woven with vines and thin branches.

Part of me can't help watching the way the Heron family reacts throughout the night. I can't imagine how hard it is, having a son and brother in the Hunger Games for the second time. Their faces light up at the sight of Liam's, just like mine. They're just as focused on the other tributes, too. Trying to measure their skills, styles, and strengths just from the chariot parade.

When I say goodnight to the family, and thank them for letting me watch the program at their place, I leave. Several yards down the road, Anna calls my name and I turn to face her. The warm breeze blows her hair back as she says, "Elise, do you want to watch the interviews with us, too?"

I give her a sad shake of my head. "No, sorry… I have to watch it with my parents. They aren't going to bend this time."

"Oh, okay," Anna replies, and smiles.

For a few seconds, nobody speaks. Just the trees shivering in the wind.

"Anna," I say, "I'm really sorry about your brother." I'm not sure if Anna knows Liam told me, but I've never said anything to her about Graham before, and now seems like the time.

"Thank you," she tells me. "I can't lose him too, though."

Him.

Liam.

"I know…" I trail off, thinking for a moment. The worst part about this whole thing is how powerless I feel, standing by and watching Liam on the screen is about as close as I can get-

The thought comes so suddenly, that, when I speak, it catches my voice in my throat. "Anna, I think there's a way we can help him."


	5. Liam :: The Tributes

_Author's Note: I know, my original plan was to alternate Liam/Elise Chapters. But I prefer shorter chapters, and these divided nicely. Finally, we get to Training! Review! What were your thoughts on this?_

_They're gonna clean up your looks With all the lies in the books _

_To make a citizen out of you_

_ Because they sleep with a gun And keep an eye on you,son_

_ So they can watch all the things you do _

_Because the drugs never work _

_They gonna give you a smirk '_

_Cause they got methods of keeping you clean _

_They gonna rip up your heads_

_ Your aspirations to shreds_

_ Another cog in the murder machine_

_- "Teenagers," My Chemical Romance  
_

* * *

Chapter Five – Liam – The Tributes

"Take your shirt off." Addison demands.

I almost choke on my mouthful of scrambled eggs when she says this. It's only been a couple hours since the tribute parade, since being at the mercy of my prep team all day, and Addison wants me to strip? I take a gulp of orange juice to get to the eggs down, and see Senneth is laughing as he fixes his coffee.

"Oh, don't be so sad, Senneth, you too." Addison insists. The shaking in his shoulders stops. Her face stares at us quizzically, like something's wrong. "What? I make all my male tributes do this. I have to know what I'm working with."

I push my seat back and get up, and start to undo the buttons on my shirt one-by-one. "I thought you already knew what you were working with," I protest, trying to get my stiff fingers to cooperate with undressing.

"But the Capitol doesn't," she explains. "Training starts today, but your interview is just as important as your score. And you two need an angle to work. So, that's where I come in."

Where Addison comes in? What about Harper? He hasn't even spoken so much as two words to anyone this whole trip. I eye him in the corner, pushing his fried potatoes around, completely disinterested.

"I guess we're learning from the best, then," Senneth says. He's absolutely right. In her Games, Addison had broken with her Career alliance early, jut to get through the bloodbath and get a hand on some good supplies. In her interview, she was hilarious, and stunning in a red dress that made the Capitol head over heels for her. That, combined with a great score, gave her enough sponsors to compete solo all the way to the end of the Games. Eight years later, people still chase her down the street.

"Now, I've been doing some math," Addison tells us, like she's about to reveal an esoteric piece of knowledge. "And about half the people in the Capitol are female. And most of them are married."

The point is obvious as Senneth and I both take off our shirts, one after the other. Addison smiles, and nods. "I'm not saying you have to do this, either of you. But both of you are good-looking, and if you get the attention of the Capitol, well, you'll win over the hearts of the ladies and the checkbooks of their husbands."

"Isn't just being overconfident and narcissistic a little…" I begin.

"…Shallow?" Addison finishes. "Of course it is. The Capitol won't be interested in a good-looking tribute for long if they don't have substance. Careers often make that mistake. That's why you guys need character. So think. Do you have a story worth hearing?"

Senneth, after a couple of minutes pacing around our lavish, modern hotel floor, can't come up with a "knockout story." Addison has an easy remedy for this. "Be the bad boy," she says obviously. "Wrong side of the tracks. Mysterious. Brooding. Tall, dark, handsome, you know."

I think for a moment, searching for my own tale to tell. I end up looking to Addison.

She's sitting on the opposite end of the dining room table. Between her and me is a long expanse of every breakfast food you can imagine, all on a white table cloth. I see the breadbasket. Districts' breads fill it to the brim. Seed loaves from Eleven, white yeast rolls from One and Two. I spot another familiar kind. They're almost like crackers: long, flat biscuits that are meant to keep for a good time. The type you wrap in brown paper and pull out of your pocket when you get a five-minute break from the factory machines. The type of bread in District Three. The crackers are arranged right by District Four's: seaweed bread, flecked with dark green.

I have my story, and when I pitch it to Addison, she gives me her approval. I'm going to be as natural as I can. Focus on Graham and my family from District Three, and Elise from District Four. In Addison's terms, "The golden boy with a tragic past." I know she's not being mean about it, just trying to get me to focus on a model, really. I'm less of a golden boy than the Capitol might believe, though. Especially if you take a look at my time in District Four.

A perfect example I can think of is when I first met the boy standing next to me.

Senneth Orrick.

We're both eighteen, fishers, and from relatively the same part of town. Senneth's a native, though. His father pulls down the same fishing salary as he does, so he gets invited to the group Elise hangs out with occasionally. The children of District Four's wealthiest. The ones who make off with all the alcohol they want and throw bonfires on their private beaches. A year ago, Elise and I were at one of those bonfires. The moon silvered the waves and bathed everything in pale blue. Anna, fifteen at the time, came for some reason or another I can't remember. I think she wanted to go for the sake of spending the evening with the older District Four kids.

Anna's always been mature for her age. She's tall and graceful and can contend in a conversation with anyone. I remember talking to Elise, and there was a group of boys downing drink after drink after drink. They were in my year. CITs, Careers-in-Training, Elise called them. It was later into the night that I hadn't seen Anna for a while, but I wasn't worried. Figured she went off with some of her friends, but trusted her to be smart. Elise, a couple of our mutual friends and I were walking around the hosts' beach house when there was Anna.

She was with her friend.

And surrounded by four CITs.

"C'mon, let's go," one of them slurred, his hands on her shoulders, her arms. His head hung down and low against her neck. Anna was trying to get away as politely as she could. Laughing nervously. I was already running, my stomach sick at the sight of them. Another CIT was encouraging him, the leader, while the other two did the same to her friend.

When he put his hands around her waist, Anna shoved him away. "What's your problem?" he demanded, grabbing her so hard she winced in pain.

"Get the hell off her!" I yelled as I ran ahead of Elise and her friends. "Leave her alone!"

The leader pushed Anna away from him, and she ran to my side, eyes welling up. "Liam," she sniffed. "I didn't mean to, they said they knew where the rest of our friends were."

"It's okay," I said tonelessly, "go to Elise. We're leaving."

Anna ran up the sand dunes, meeting Elise halfway. She was safe.

Then I met the four pairs of eyes in front of me with a level gaze.

"It's the transplant, Charles!" the drunkest one laughed to the leader.

They let Anna's friend go, and she followed the same path up the dunes.

"Who invited you? Go home, District Three." Another growled.

I clenched my jaw, dug my nails into the flesh of my palms. I've had that name thrown at me so many times, but it still cut fresh that night. Still, I needed control. I didn't get angry often.

I wouldn't now.

Charles shifted his sleepy eyes toward Anna, and considered her for a moment.

Like a meal he wanted to send back.

"You can have her," Charles told me apathetically. "She's a fucking tease, anyway."

A step. A punch.

Charles was on the ground.

A gasp. A curse.

The others closed in.

I heard Elise's screams above the shouts and grunts of the rest of the boys. I managed to deliver a blow to one of their faces, and kicked a second, before they got me on the ground. Sand rubbed against my skin and coated my cheek. I was trying to block their punches and return them at the same time. Suddenly I felt a sharp kick to the side of my face, and a searing, radiating pain. Blood, sand, and saliva mingled in my mouth, heavy on my tongue.

Two of them held me, one on each arm, and hoisted me up. The one I had punched was cradling the side of his face with his hand. Charles had gotten up, and was staring at me, contemplating his options. A raw red mark was on his cheek, and his lip was bleeding.

"Don't call my sister that," I snarled, trying to rip my arms from the other boys' hold.

"She's from District Three too? Oh, so that explains why she's such a bitch," Charles sighed. He rammed his fist into the center of my torso, knocking the wind out of me. Elise was trying to get help. At least I think she was. I could hear her voice, but not her words. The most distinct thing I heard was the wet, muted sound of Charles' fist into my gut. Each hit had me doubled over and gasping for air, pain and nausea coursing through me.

Pounding head.

Bloody mouth.

Airless lungs.

Screaming nerves.

And then the blows stopped.

I gathered enough energy in me to elbow the boy on my left in the ribs, and swung the other one to the ground, delivering a kick to his stomach as he fell. I saw Chuck and the other CIT lying on the ground, clutching their stomachs. A new addition to the fight was standing there, his dark blonde hair roughed from his exchanges with the CITs. He was a little taller than me, with a thicker build.

"Elise said you needed some help," he said, wiping paste of sand and blood off his jaw.

"Only a little," I panted, hand over my stomach. Each word contracted my gut painfully. "Liam."

"Senneth."

That was the only time we'd spoken before the Reaping. I remember that night he left quite quickly after the fight, when Elise and Anna and I thanked him. Elise told me later on he was her childhood friend up until a couple years ago. I asked her why they didn't talk anymore, and she replied, "We just became too different to really be around each other anymore. But we still catch up now and again."

But now Senneth and I have done nothing but talk since the Reaping. Mainly about our strategies. What our alliances will look like. District Four is unique from One and Two in that, while it produces Careers, it doesn't depend on the Capitol nearly as much. District Four tributes are greatly benefitted by joining the industry, almost more than any other. From what I know about the Training Academy, from Elise, is that you practice skills you need for the arena, and then enter rounds of competition if you want to be a volunteer. The CITs don't spend nearly as much time fishing as Senneth and I do, though.

Isaac says my aim is just about as good as anyone's.

The Sector I'm in, Six, basically contains apprentices who have mastered all the knots and close-range techniques. Things applicable to a fight. We do a little mixed fishing, meaning we go out in boats and fish offshore occasionally. Senneth's Sector Eight does that one-hundred-percent of the time though. Eights go out to sea for a week or two at a time and come back home for breaks. They survive out there.

My point is that Senneth and I can handle ourselves in the arena. We both have enough experience. That's why I think it's better to be in an alliance with a non-Career.

"But why?" Senneth asks.

"Maybe it's because I'm from District Three," I say tentatively, "but to me, Careers are always the ones to me who stab your back after the alliance breaks, when you're walking away."

"You want to have the deadliest tributes in the history of the Games be our enemies from the get-go?" Senneth questions, his voice more serious. It widens a whole in my words.

"Listen," I try, "let's size up everyone in training today. Maybe we'll find someone better than a Career."

I can tell this will be our first disagreement, but Senneth nods his head slowly after a bit. "Alright. We check out the competition. What if the Careers are the best, though?"

I take a long, deep breath and exhale. "If they're trustworthy, absolutely." Which makes the chances of such an alliance highly unlikely, but right now I just don't want to continue on the subject.

So after breakfast we have an hour before we have to report down to the Training Center with the other tributes. As we only arrived in the Capitol yesterday, we decide to explore our hotel floor in full detail. I have to admit, even from being in Elise's house and seeing some of District Four's best mansions, the Capitol nearly tops all of them. Open rooms, tall ceilings, and almost half of the wall space has been replaced with windows looking out over the City Circle. The palette is simple and pale, accented with many mirrors and pieces of art. I can tell all the technology has come from only the best District Three companies.

It must have cost a fortune.

I wonder what the Capitol citizens think of all of the other tributes. Do they know how impoverished District Three and the others are? Sometimes I don't even think those in Four know the full extent of it. In District Three, I remember the brown and grays of the city, the tenements, filthy and overcrowded, and the factories that always spewed thick smoke. But then again, how would they? Our moving to Four was a miracle in and of itself. There certainly aren't more than a handful of transplant families in the country. That's for sure.

To our surprise, the clock has caught us off guard. About to be late, we end up rushing to get changed and racing to the golden elevator in the hallway outside.

"You two know the drill," Addison says on the elevator, as we descend. "Everyone will know you are better than good with a spear, so don't focus on that. Try practicing different techniques, things you wouldn't normally. Review your knots, get a couple of good snares and tricks down." We take Addison's advice with approval. It's no good showing off, especially when we're from District Four. We need to focus on other things, especially since we're not guaranteed fish, seas, or spears to keep us alive in the arena.

Though no one says so.

About half of the tributes are in the Training Center already, stretching, talking, or just looking around. It's a cavernous, charcoal-gray gymnasium. The rest file in after us periodically. As soon as we're all together, the instructor, a young, stocky man, comes up and gives us the run-through. "Alright, keep in mind this is training, not the Games," he warns. "That means you don't practice with other tributes. You can do that with the instructor if you wish. Otherwise, go to each station as you please. Remember, you have three days to practice, and on the fourth, your sessions with the Gamemakers. We have three hours until lunch, and then another three until the end of the day. Good luck. Be good. If you can't be good, be careful."

The Careers automatically go for the weapons, while the others go for the survival stations and combat rings about equally. Sen and I pick the close-range weapons first. The instructor each gives us each a cutlass, a thick, heavy sword that's difficult to swing at first. I try a lighter blade and find I can counter and parry the tutor's blows quick enough, but Sen's much more of a natural. He gets a scimitar and immediately finds a rhythm. Back and forth, whipping through the air with a surprising amount of finesse. A small smile crosses his lips when he almost disarms the tutor on their first round.

The gazes on our backs could put a hole through the sun. I want to look back, but there's no need.

The Careers' eyes are on us the whole time.

Do they know I'm not from an Academy like them? That this is my first time with a weapon they've already mastered? I doubt they get that from Senneth, but my first day of sword skills can't put off such confidence. We walk around the camouflage and snare stations, trying our hands at each. Senneth and I certainly won't win by painting our bodies, but the extra rabbit here or there could really affect our overall performance.

By the time we accomplish the skills of the latter, day one has ended.

When I ask Addison about joining the Careers, she says it's up to us. But that picking our allies will be the biggest decisions we make in the arena, and certainly should not be taken lightly. In fact, Addison explains all of our questions away for most of the evening over roasted chicken and potatoes. She does it all laughing and running a hand through her thick honey-brown hair. I couldn't imagine having a different mentor.

That's because the other mentor only comes around for dinner, to fill up his plate and drop off empty ones from the previous meals. Out of my whole time in the Capitol, it is Harper who's been the biggest thorn in my side. His apathy and lack of concern for Sen's life, and my own, has been increasingly setting my blood boiling. Harper was a victor. Does he not get what his job is? Or does he even care?

The next day we spend in the arena trying our hand at survival skills. Time passes by slowly, my hand itching to do something other than lighting fires and pitching tents. I know what Addison said, but she's right. Everyone knows we'll be good with a spear, but why not ahead and test the ones we'll be using in the arena?

We both walk over to the weapons rack and grab a spear. The wooden shaft is polished and heavy; the whole spear is sleek and deadly. I just get the sense from the weight of it in my hand. I heft it high, get a good aim on the target.

It's just another Sand Dart.

The spear leaves my hand, cuts the air, and buries itself into what would be the ribcage of a tribute. Then the image flashes before me. Thick, hot blood, streaming from ripped flesh and pooling on the ground. Knees giving way, a body on the ground. Dead. By my hand.

For the first time it hits me that I will do this to someone. A person in the room right here. I'm pulled back from the dead tribute when Senneth swears. I look up. Senneth has gotten a solid stick on the thigh of his dummy.

He shrugs, slightly embarrassed. "I haven't thrown a spear in two years. Since Sector Six."

We keep practicing. I admit, I'm not used to throwing spears quite so far, but I still have my aim and strength. Within an hour, I get my results nearly to where I want them.

Then they're behind us.

"You're great with those."

The Careers.


	6. Liam :: Alliance

_A/N: Helllooo all! This is Chapter Six, aka Chapter Five part two. I meant to upload this the day after Chapter Five but got pretty side-tracked. Anyway, here it is: a big shout-out to Cherrybubble and Paper Space for reviewing! Read! Review! Thank You! - BTM_

_I took it like a grown man crying on the pavement  
Hoping you would show your face  
But I haven't heard a thing you've said  
In at least a couple hundred days  
What'd you say?_

_I could feel my heartbeat taking me down_  
_And for the moment, I would sleep alright_  
_I'm dealing with a selfish fear_  
_To keep me up another restless night_  
_Another restless night..._

_- Manchester Orchestra, "I Can Feel a Hot One"  
_

* * *

Chapter Six – Liam – The Alliance

There's four of them.

The District Ones are both tall, tanned, and toned. The girl is named Rowen, the boy, Hudson. They could just be coming from a photoshoot as they flash white smiles and laugh on point. Returning the same feigned pleasantry is painful. What's more, they are insanely flirtatious with each other. The night of the tribute parade, I was going back up to my room, when I glimpsed the two of them pressed together through the elevator doors. Tribute flings aren't unheard of, but completely welcome by Capitol standards. Another dimension of drama, of speculation, to add to commentary, I guess.

The tributes from District Two are much more different. They don't put on an act the way Rowen and Hudson do. I'm eye-level with the boy, Cyrus, who's shaved black hair and gray eyes give him a cold-blooded look. He hardly talks, but he's clearly the leader. The Career dynamic is simple. The District Ones win over the heart of the Capitol with their looks and charm. The District Twos come in with ruthless blood thirst and brutality. The seal on the whole thing are the Careers; impressive scores. Long before the Games, sponsors will be putting money on this group, no question.

However, the one who has been the wild card out of this whole time, from the time I saw her on Reaping Day, to the tribute parade, is the District Two girl.

Her name is Lena. Her long, wavy hair is a shade of deep, dark brown. Her skin is pale, and her eyes a luminescent green. Lena's almost as tall as her District partner, and though she's slender, there's an air around her. Complex, but it's thick and hazy. Something I can't read exactly. She's defensive, or maybe doesn't care, with arms crossed. No reaction to anything being said whatsoever.

Besides her name, she doesn't say anything else.

We talk for about ten minutes. The Careers, except for Lena, outline their strengths and why we should join them. They talk to us like we've already agreed, and this conversation is simply gratuitous. They are especially impressed with Senneth's scimitar skills and my spearing techniques, Rowen gushes. To close, Cyrus says, "What do you think? We'll join at the bloodbath, get our supplies, and start picking off the weakest from there." His steely eyes fix on mine, and a chill runs under my skin.

Just, when I'm about to ask to talk to my District partner, Senneth speaks up. "Thanks, but no thanks."

For a handful of moments, the silence is a thick, brick wall between the Careers and us. Their brows furrow and their eyes fall in disbelief.

Senneth smiles congenially and asks me what station I'd like to go to next.

All but Lena stare at us in shock. She's emotionless, looking at the ground, ready to move on. Rowen smiles uncomfortably. Hudson even thinks we're joking, but when Senneth restates his prior words more seriously, there's no mistake. Cyrus's glare alone cuts through me more than a knife. Is Senneth just as thrown by him?

As they leave, Rowen is cordial, wishing us luck, and lamenting how it's too bad we won't be joining them.

Her eyes say otherwise.

"Why the sudden turn-around?" I ask him in a harsh whisper as they walk out of earshot.

Senneth grins. "You were right. I've found someone better than a Career. Look at the girl from District Seven. The axe station."

I follow his line of sight, and there's one of the forest spirits from the tribute parade. Straight black hair swishing from side to side as she throws one battle axe after the other into the targets. One look at her aim is enough for any sponsor too open a checkbook. I can't help but grin too.

"Let's go talk to her," Senneth urges.

Her name's Vera, from District Seven, and she's sixteen, she informs us. Though she's young for these Games, she's holding a lot of attention with her axe-throwing skills. I wonder why I haven't picked up on it until now. Vera looks at us hesitantly with autumn eyes, one hand clutching an axe. She's a little on the small side, but very quick and lithe. "I know traps and snares, too," she adds. "From spending so much time in the woods." Her smile is contagious.

I'm immediately taken to this tribute. Isn't this the exact kind of person I wanted to have in our group? Despite the fit between us, she does need some convincing. An alliance is a tricky decision, especially for a tribute from an outlying district. Relations between them and Careers are delicate, if not severed, by this point. Senneth assures her we aren't like the Careers, and lists the advantages of our alliance. The benefits we'll have together when it comes to fights, sponsors, and survival. I basically only reiterate what he says. There doesn't seem to be anything else to add.

"Alright," she finally says.

"Excellent," I reply.

We spend the rest of the day training with Vera. She can get a fire going out of anything, and can identify at least sixty of the edible plants and roots at the nature station. Her District partner is fairly thick physically, and only possesses the accompanying strength. Unfortunately, no aim when it comes to an axe. But so far, Senneth and I are content to leave our alliance with Vera. District Four and Seven. We pass the news along to Addison that night, and she approves whole-heartedly.

Rutledge, in one of his few appearances, hisses that we should have taken the alliance with the Careers instead. He doesn't concern me though. I don't know what the other tributes' escorts are like, but Rutledge's enthusiasm for us altogether ended when we stepped on the train. Now, he basically is just making sure we get sponsors and get to the arena alive. Getting out alive is preferred, too. He just wants it done in as few words as possible.

I catch a flash of his purple head as he struts off to the Sponsor Center late in the night, a neon-orange jacket slung over his shoulder and down his back. Somehow, he reminds me of a peacock. Ever dramatic and garish. Oh well, at least he can bring a smile about on the needed occasion.

Day three goes smoothly for the most part. Senneth and I spend the first half of the day with the swords again, since we plan to use them should our spears fail us in a battle. We study and pass the edible plants test. Throw spears into the hearts of dummies, like darts on a board. Maybe I've never been a CIT, but being in District Three teaches everyone at least one skill.

Efficiency.

Efficiency to learn a new machine's manual or meet your raised quota. To get by on two weeks' wages for a month.

I'm not a killing machine.

I am a fast learner.

So by lunch, when Senneth and I have given up trying to absorb anymore, we settle in at a table and devour three huge beef sandwiches each. Sen is leagues better with his scimitar and pretty good with most of the other weapons. However, I've managed to get more of the survival skills and spear techniques. Nonetheless, I eat and drink with spirits raised. We'll be a formidable match for the Careers.

Especially with Vera.

Vera.

Where is she? She should be with us.

I look around, chewing on a mouthful of bread and meat. She's on the other end of the cafeteria, picking at the remains of a first sandwich. Vera's not eating. She's listening. The Careers surround her at the table, talking animatedly. She nods occasionally, a small frown on her lips.

"What do you think that's about?" Sen asks.

I don't reply. After a minute, it's apparent. The same facial expressions, same gestures, and the same voices the Careers were putting on for us.

"They want her for an ally," I mutter. I take a drink of iced tea, and start to stand.

"Don't," Senneth says in a hushed tone. "We don't need to tangle with them any more than we already have." I start to object, but the Careers are already gone from Vera's table. The bite of sandwich slides down my throat dryly, taking my words with it.

As soon as lunch ends, and the second half of our day begins, we go over to Vera. "What did the Careers tell you?" Senneth demands, though it's not needed.

"They wanted an alliance," Vera says with a tired sigh. "I told them no, of course. I was already with the best."

She beams widely.

Every single muscle fiber in my body sighs with relief. Senneth and I, acting astonished, enviously complement the so-called "best" team she must be with. This gets a laugh out of her, and we spend the rest of the third day reviewing our techniques. She really fits in well between the two of us. And needless to say, the training has left all three of us exhausted. By the time the private sessions come the day following, I'm riding on the adrenaline of anticipation and nerves. Senneth is the same. There's really not much to it, though. One by one, the tributes go in and come out the same plain door.

Name called.

Liam Heron.

Walk in.

Introduction.

Start the motions.

I pick up two spears, one in each hand, and approach the dummies. The low murmurs in the background cease as my time limit begins on a red countdown clock. Soon my palms are slick with sweat, but the spearheads still find the centers of their targets. Fatigue and pain enter my muscles from the second spear. I've overworked them, and now I'm paying the price. I get so frustrated at this preventable hindrance, this amateur mistake, that I miss one of the targets' centers by a foot.

Come on, Liam. You can do better.

I have the targets orbit me on their tracks, revolving at various speeds. Like planets around the sun. The targets aren't impossible to hit; I've seen stingrays move just as fast, and hit the bulls eyes. I would gladly stop right here, right now. But the silence from the Gamemakers tells me I haven't done enough to warrant an ovation. More. Give us a more.

To end, I pick up one of the thinner swords, and use it in tandem with my last spear.

Stabbing, slashing, dancing.

Spinning, jumping, thrusting.

I push my spear into what I see and pull my sword through what I can't reach otherwise. My own heart keeps tempo, faster and faster until I nearly can't keep up with the targets' speed. The muscles of my arms burn. The heart in my chest is about to push through my muscles, bones, and flesh. I know it. Can feel it. My lungs aren't emptying quickly enough. When I try to draw my next breathe, my cardboard lungs won't expand at all.

The targets blur.

Someone flips a switch.

The targets stop.

The clapping starts.

I'm panting, my chest and back expanding against the tight fabric of my uniform. Shoulders heaving. It's over. I meet the pleased eyes of the purple-robed figures above me, and smile. The door slides open to let me pass. Endorphins course through me as the cool air hits my sweaty skin. I drain the contents of my water bottle in one long sip.

When my heart has slowed and my cardboard lungs allow air in, I make my way to the elevators, bound for my bedroom. The elevator is nearly about to close when she comes in.

Lena.

The girl is absolutely wordless as she slips through the narrowing space between the doors. She's slightly out-of-breathe too, and her face is flushed. She pushes the button labeled "two," and steps back to look at the ceiling.

I can't help but be a little interested. This quiet statue of a tribute standing next to me doesn't put off anything. Not anger, annoyance, or kindness. Complete neutrality.

"How did your session go?" I ask quietly. By the time I get the words out, we're already on her floor.

The doors part.

She turns her head to me, at a slight angle, the green in her eyes shining, almost burning.

"Fine."

Lena's gone.

The dinner that night is the best yet. The roast lamb is succulent, bathed in mint sauce and herbs. The bread, vegetables, and deserts are equally extravagant. I eat about five helpings of everything, especially the potatoes. I never knew potatoes could taste like this. In District Three, in the factories, you get mashed potatoes with your lunch a lot. Those were the only potatoes I'd had until now. Where those were gluey, bland, and cold, these are hot, buttery, and smooth. I scrape my plate with the side of my spoon. Rutledge wrinkles his nose.

During the meal, I recount my recent events to Addison and Senneth, with Harper and Rutledge in the corner. The tribute scores are schedules to come on any minute. When I ask Addison what to think of Lena, she shakes her head. "It's the quiet ones you've got to watch out for." She warns. "They hide their talents. You don't know what she's capable of."

"I guess we'll find out tonight," Rutledge remarks snidely in his high-pitched voice. He's incredibly judicious with the rice pudding on his plate, eating it one grain at a time.

The scores come on just as dinner finishes. We move to the couch, Harper left to finish his wine. Senneth doesn't appear half as nervous as I feel, but I don't bother to ask him. The television alternates between shots of the tributes and their corresponding score, while music plays in the background.

District One.

Rowen and Hudson both score nines, perfectly acceptable under normal circumstances. Still, more was to be expected from Careers elected from all the children in their District. "Why do they look like they're in love with themselves?" Addison asks with mock confusion. She glances at Rutledge, smiling.

District Two.

Cyrus's eyes are no less chilling on screen as the number ten flashes by his picture. Well, no surprise there. Lena's pale, angular face and green eyes flash onto the television just as her score appears.

Eleven.

"Told you!" Addison says triumphantly. "Quiet ones. Don't trust them. Never, ever."

A knot gathers in my stomach despite the effervescence of her tone.

District Three passes, the boy and girl scoring sevens both. Impressive, especially since the outlying Districts hardly ever pull anything above a five.

District Four.

Senneth Orrick. Ten.

"Well played," Addison says, waving her wine glass in the air. His face remains only a moment more.

Liam Heron. Nine.

My heart sinks, despite the encouragement from Senneth, Addison, and even Rutledge.

"The only people you have to watch out for are the Careers," Addison tells me without worry, "and a difference of a point hardly matters."

But I hear his footsteps across the enormous living room, going off to his bedroom. Then his voice.

"A nine?" Harper slurs, almost in disbelief. "I would have though you'd score at least a ten, but no? What happened? I thought you said you trained."

Harper leaves the room.

He's gone.

And so am I.

I ignore what Addison and Senneth try to say as I stride quickly down the hall, catching up with him.

"Harper," I growl. "Harper!" Louder. He still won't turn around. "HARPER!"

He turns on his heel and stands in front of me, features hardened.

"You're one to talk!" I yell. "You haven't done anything to help me, or Senneth, for that matter. You're just going to let Addison do the work while you lounge around all day?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," he says dismissively.

"I know enough," I snarl. The build up of anger towards him. It feels so good released. Like a moment long overdue, or a dormant volcano. The silence tastes just as bad as a lie to me. "Our lives are on the line, and you won't even give us one word of advice! And here you are, telling me I should've scored higher!" I continue.

"That's right, you should have," Harper echoes.

"Well, thanks for telling me what to do." The words come out with a sneer.

My bones are red-hot. My blood is boiling. I could say anything. Do anything. Anything at all.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and everything happens next in a fraction of a second.

Harper's hand is around my throat, and, with a surprising amount of strength, he pushes me into the wall, a sharp pain conducting through my shoulder blades and down my spine. The alcohol on his breathe is thicker than I realize. He's deeply drunk, white hair hanging in his darting green eyes.

"For someone who hates Careers, you sure as hell act like one," he hisses, the flat of his forearm against my chest. I'm completely pinned to the wall, by his words and his hands.

"Complaining about your score, throwing temper tantrums like a child." He mutters hotly. "Here's a piece of advice. Why don't you get through your thick skull, for one goddamned second, that I didn't volunteer to do this?" Harper's fingertips press into my windpipe. I loose a gasp involuntarily.

His smooth-skinned face is marred by a terrible glare.

"Addison stepped up. I was forced, because never, in a million years, would I choose to be a mentor." Our eyes connect, an electric force holding them together. "Nobody told you what my Games were, did they?" He asks mockingly. "It was a desert. Not a spear in sight. No water. No fish. Nothing from District Four. Imagine that," he whispers. "I held on to the Career alliance, got far… but when my water was gone, I was out of the Games, with no will to live. So don't get so optimistic. You don't know what hell is until you're in the arena. You don't know what thirst is until you cut your palm to wet your lips. You don't know what hunger is until you chew on your belt to keep yourself sane."

"And you know how I won?" He pauses. Harper's eyes are half-crazed, like the Games are flooding back into his memory, fresh and raw. "I won because my opponent bled to death before I did."

Harper takes his hand off my neck. As my muscles expand to let air through my throat, the pain leaves me wordless. He's walking away.

"I'm different," I hoarsely call out. "I have a reason to live."

Harper looks over his shoulder, suppressing a laugh. "Your girl? She'll leave you, if you even make it out alive. She'll find another boy, shoulder to cry on. Then she'll move on with him when she realizes you're a lost cause."

"How do you know that?" I spit.

Harper stops walking. His words are barely audible. "What do you think happened to me?"


	7. Elise :: The Plan

_Author's Note: A pretty important chapter, hopefully it's not too slow. So, once again, I decided to divide Elise's next chapter into two parts. The second portion will be coming in a couple of days. It'll be the interviews, and massive unveiling of the secret, so stick around! Don't change the channel! - BTM_

* * *

_Sweet disposition_  
_Never too soon_  
_Oh, reckless abandon_  
_Like no one's watching you..._

_Songs of desperation_  
_I played them for you_

_A moment, a love_  
_A dream aloud_  
_A kiss, a cry_  
_Our rights, our wrongs_

_- The Temper Trap, "Sweet Disposition"_

* * *

Chapter Seven – Elise – The Plan

The late afternoon sun stings my eyes.

"Are you sure he's going to be here?" I ask Anna as we walk down the road.

"Yeah, positive," she says determinedly, several steps ahead. Anna doesn't look back. "He always stays late, well… I think he does, anyway. That's what Liam says."

The fishing outposts lean into the summer breeze, as if they are exhausted. The day's beautiful: dark blue, white-crowned waves, a molten sky streaked with gold and bronze. The sand sloshes over my feet as we walk onto the moaning wood steps of the porch. The sound is so familiar to me by now, I shouldn't even notice it, but with Liam gone, and the floorboards under my feet, everything changes.

Anna is no longer with me. Instead, it's Liam who's stepping into the outpost with me.

* * *

It was just under a year after we'd met. We were both sixteen then. Liam and I had first met in the market over the fish incident three weeks before the beginning of that school, and now school was just about to let out. With the end of classes, though, meant the start of Exams. While everyone was racing to memorize the long, mercilessly boring notes they'd accumulated from History class, or struggling with a complicated section from mathematics, the only thing Liam was having trouble with was our class, Fishing Basics. Even though he's from District Three, and has a really keen memory to learn just about anything, he couldn't tie a simple net.

"Elise," he begged dramatically, "I need your help with knots. They're literally killing me."

"Why?" I asked. "There are diagrams in the book?"

"I don't understand how they get from Point A to Point B. It's impossible! Do you know what it's like, trying to look at those pictures? The artist drew them so it's just a pair of armless, detached hands, floating in midair, tying knots. That's not how it works!" he insisted, mockly exasperated. Then, a little more calmly, "Besides, my fishing net broke the other day, while I was dragging it back to the docks, and well, it kind of just burst open. You need to help me fix it. And, or, teach me some knots in the process."

So after school that day, he convinced me to go the fishing outpost with him. Honestly, I was nervous going with him alone. I was much more shy back then when it came to boys. Some girls in my grade had flirting and dating perfected to an art form, though for me, I'm pretty sure my silence always came off as disinterest. Since being with Liam, words aren't so hard to find. And anyway, to his credit, the net had a huge, gaping tear down one side.

"Who made this net?" I asked. Liam shrugged. "This knot isn't very good for a net; it's too weak to hold the weight of the fish without breaking. We were working at one of the tables, side-by-side. Liam had his forearms on the table, head bent to see my work. He pushed the dark tufts of hair off his forehead. "Do I have to know this one for the exam?" he inquired, looking at the new knot I was replicating again and again to fix the net.

"Yeah, but this one's really good for almost anything," I said. "It's really strong, and doesn't take that much rope to make it." I threaded the end of line through a loop, wrapped it around another, and pulled it tight. "There. Now, you try."

He put his hands on the table, bracing himself. Slowly, methodically, he copied my actions as I performed them, until his own motions turned from clumsy to confident. As we worked to repeat the net, the conversation point we'd bee discussing had grown tired, so I said, "Do you ever miss District Three?"

Still knotting the rope, he replied, "Sometimes, I do, yeah. I had my friends over there, but fishing is a lot better than the factories. They make you start there when you're thirteen. It's not a really long day, probably four hours a couple days a week, depending on how much money you've got. If the parents have enough money, the kids don't have to work at all, if not…" he trails off. "But, District Four's good, too. A lot prettier. And you can't beat the CITs."

This is one of the things I've noticed about Liam over the years. When some people feel as though they've said too much, or want to change the conversation, they trail off and start a new subject. But Liam renews his voice, and tries to make a joke of it.

I smiled, as he was referencing the nicknames I'd given the loud, brutish boys always vying to be Hunger Games volunteers. "You know, you kind of look like one; a CIT."

Liam stopped knotting. He frowned. "I don't worry about my hair as much, though. But as far as the muscles go, and the good looks, then yeah, I'd say so."

I couldn't help laughing. Liam as long as I have known him, as been well-built, but his own form of self-deprecation, while somehow still at the expense of the CITs, has always managed to make me smile since.

"And, most importantly, you're disposition."

"Yeah, that, too."

We kept talking, and I showed Liam a few more knots. School let out mid-afternoon, and now the sun was more than halfway through with its descent to the horizon. My previous nerves had settled, but still reminded me of their presence from time to time. No one was working at the outpost that day, as the day was taken off for Exams. The room was washed and organized neatly, and seemed almost relaxing as the air mixed the sounds of the waves, the rustles of our work, and the warm, low pitch of Liam's voice together.

"Well, you think it's time to go back?" he asked quietly. His net was finished, brand-new. "Before it gets too dark."

"Yeah, we should." I agreed.

On the porch of the outpost, the breeze stirred the balmy, salty air. The dull-orange light above us casted everything in a faint gold light. "Thanks for helping me with that," he told me appreciatively. "The net."

"You're welcome."

His navy eyes flickered for a moment. And then he kissed me.

It was like some sort of lapse existed between my head and my body. By the time I realized he was kissing me, and I was kissing him, the small of my back was pressed against the rail. His hands resting on my waist. My heart was racing immediately. I'd never kissed a boy before – some of my friends had told me to just go ahead with it already – but maybe a part of me was expecting it that night. I was taken aback slightly by how natural it felt, no music, no build-up, just us.

The pressure of his lips against mine seemed to electrify every nerve in my body and send my heart racing. Nervousness seemed to behind Liam's kiss, too, but less so. Had he kissed somebody before? A million sensations shot through me, leaving it impossible to absorb anything else. The hot, faintly sweet smell of his skin and flesh. The tickle of his hair on my forehead. My hands rested on his chest, clutching at his shirt. He brought me closer as we kissed, the shadows darkening in the emerging night.

* * *

It's gone suddenly. The memory plays itself through, flashing before me like heat lightning. We put the same porch behind us, walk through the door, and enter the nearest prep room. "Isaac, you here?" Anna calls, scanning the austere walls and tables. The air is cold and antiseptic, freshly cleaned.

"Yeah, wait a second!" another voice returns, from one of the halls. A moment later, he's hanging in the doorway across the room, hands on the side of the threshold. He's tall, lanky, and lean, like one of the reeds growing around the ponds in the park. Hair between rust and copper, with fair eyes and skin.

Isaac is also shirtless, dressed only in his swimming trunks. He clearly wasn't expecting the company he received, because he immediately seems flustered, quickly producing a shirt that he tugs over his head. Anna wraps an arm around her stomach and holds onto her wrist. "Oh, Isaac! Sorry, I didn't realize…" A faint pink rises to the top of her skin on her cheeks.

"Hey, Anna," he gets out. He gives me a shy, tentative smile. I think we've met in passing once or twice, from the Academy or school, but we've never exchanged any words.

"Can we… talk to you?" she asks, trying to make her voice even and bright. "Not long. Just for a couple of minutes."

"Yeah, alright. Take a seat," he says, gesturing loosely to a rickety bench in front of the nearest table. "Don't sit on that side, you'll fall… yeah, right there should be good." Once we're all situated, Isaac pulls his shoulders back, and folds his hands in front of him, assuming the air of a suave businessman. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"It's about Liam," Anna explains pushing several strands of hair away from her eyes. With just these words, Isaac's light expression darkens. "We need someone's help who can get the support of the fishing families in District Four, and, well, you fish. You're friends with a lot of the families' boys. What we thought, I mean, it's Elise's idea…" She casts her eyes to me, unsure if she should proceed.

"At first," I pick up, "I was going to send in money to Liam's sponsors. You know, to help him get supplies. But then I thought what if we got the _whole District _involved? We could get Liam anything he needed. I know it's never been done before, but between the three of us and our families, we can reach out to almost everyone in Four."

Isaac looks at me carefully, thumbs pressed against his lips. He lowers his hands. "Yeah, that would be really good. I mean, I've never heard of a whole District backing a tribute before." His eyes freeze on a thought, and it's almost like I can see him examining every crease and fold of it. "But we can't just have Liam. I know we all want him to come home, obviously, but… but for the District to get behind this, we're going to have to support Senneth, too. I don't think Four would want to favorite one tribute while both are alive."

I nod slowly, head heavy. I want to sigh, or better yet, collapse. Again, it hits me so hard, I seem numb. The idea that, in the next couple weeks, I'm going to see Liam or Senneth, or even both of them die, sinks into me. Heavy like lead, and paralyzing like poison. I sense Anna shift next to me.

"Well, we can start planning tomorrow." Her words are measured and sober. "We really just needed you to get on board with it. Besides, the interviews are going to start soon, and you're a long way from your house, Elise." I don't want to go. I want to stay right here and work until we've got the whole plan worked out, but Anna's right. In Four, it's an unspoken rule to not be out and about while Hunger Games programs are live on the television, unless you're going to watch them in the public theatre.

"Yeah," I get out. "Let's go." My legs bend uncooperatively as I stand, stiff and numb.

The meeting with Isaac leaves me quiet as we walk back to the Herons' house on the fringe of the District. Anna and Isaac keep up most of the conversation. Despite the circumstances, he laughs at almost everything Anna remarks on, and returns it with equal humor. It keeps my spirits from completely falling. That, with the promise of seeing Liam talking, just him, for a few minutes tonight, along with Senneth.

To be honest, it's almost hard to think of Senneth more than Liam as we walk through the marshy, wooded outskirts of town, where I spent so many adolescent afternoons coming to the creek with him. He picked crabs from the mud, and tried to always put them in one of the towels I brought with me. We would swim against the current as far as we could, and then eat one of the sandwiches I'd have, warm and softened by the heat of the sun. And talk, about the Games, Four, or our parents. Anything, really. One summer, Senneth even took the liberty to fix a long, thick rope to one of the overhanging branches of a tree, leaving us with a rope to swing off of into the creek…

Suddenly, I'm brought back to my senses as I realize Isaac is taking a different path from the one Anna and I are on. I realize he must be taking the way back to his house.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow," he promises. "I'll see if I can get off early."

He's walking away down the corner of the street when he turns. "Bye Elise, bye Anna!" he calls.

"See you later," Anna says back, grinning, while I return his wave.

We continue on a bit, maybe a minute or two more, when, without giving it much thought, I ask, "How long have you known Isaac?"

"Since last year. We had a lot of classes together, and he fishes with Liam."

"Yeah," I nod. A few moments later, "Do you have any classes with him this year?"

"Mmm-hmm, a couple," she says. Anna explains to me the classes she has with Isaac, talking animatedly. She then goes into a story about how, one time, in their English class, he looked at the plot of the book they were reading in a completely different way than anyone else. "He argues with me on, like, everything in that class. But, he's really funny though. He's good at making his point." As we walk, and she tells me the story, I can't help but think about the way Anna talks about Isaac, about going to him for the plan, out of all the other fishers in her grade.

As she turns to walk down the pathway to her house, she's smiling at the ground.


	8. Elise :: Crash

_You don't wanna hurt me,  
But see how deep the bullet lies.  
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.  
There's a thunder in our hearts, baby.  
So much hate for the ones we love?  
Tell me, we both matter, don't we…_

_And if I only could,_  
_Make a deal with God,_  
_And get him to swap our places,_  
_Be running up that road,_  
_Be running up that hill,_  
_Be running up that building,_  
_If I only could, oh.._

Placebo, "Running Up That Hill"

* * *

Chapter Eight – Elise – The Crash

"Come on, Ellie, try it!" Senneth called from the tree. He was crouched in the lap of two branches, hands on the rough rope, the creek before the tree like an open book, or a pair of outstretched arms. The water was a deep mix of blue, green, and the brown of the mud.

His shirt, shoes, and socks were neatly folded on a nearby log. The sun was warming them for him when he would step out of the water. "It's too cold!" I said, trying to make my voice plaintive. Senneth could smell the fear on me, though, and he frowned as he sensed it.

"What are you so afraid of, anyway?" he accused. "It's perfectly fine! Watch!"

Senneth pushed his feet off the trunk and swung forward on the rope like a pendulum. His skinny frame was stretched out along the rope. He gave a loud, confident whoop, and, just as he reached the arc's crest, leapt. He must have been five or six feet from the water, fairly high, when he let go and his feet broke the creek's surface. I gave Senneth an appreciative shout, and clapped for him as the water closed over his head, hoping he would hear it before going completely under.

I was deciding what I could critique on his technique, when a handful of too many seconds passed. The adults always tried to scare the kids with stories of terrible injuries that happened at the creek. You could jump into a creek thousands of times, my mother would tell me, and you would never know when a sharp rock or shallow spot would irreparably break you. Maybe we kept it in the back of our heads, like always making sure to go only at high tide, but no one ever thought it would happen to them. Surely, Senneth hadn't fallen wrong?

But before the whispering fear could raise it's voice any more, Senneth's dark blonde head emerged from the water. He whipped it to the side to get the hair out of his eyes. He looked at me, puzzled. "Something wrong?"

"Sen, you idiot!" I said angrily. "I thought something happened to you."

He laughed as he stroked his way back to the muddy bank. "You worry too much. I wasn't under long at all." Senneth almost always had some kind of bruise or was marked-up from his stunts, so of course he was passing it off as nonchalantly as possible.

"You could have _died_," I told him confidently.

"Well, don't get your hopes too down, I might soon enough." He informed me lightly. "Reaping's tomorrow, and if I get picked, I'm as good as dead."

"Don't say that!"

"Why not? Because your parents told you not to?" he almost sneered.

I felt the back of my neck heat up, and the uncomfortable warmth spread to my cheeks and ears. "No, because that's just a terrible thing to say at all. Besides, you shouldn't even worry about stuff like that. Since when does District Four let a thirteen-year-old go into the Hunger Games?"

He shrugged as he grabbed a gnarled root and stepped onto the slick muddy slope leading out of the creek. The crabs scuttled at his present, and he considered them at his feet for a moment, shrugging. "I dunno. There are years when kids don't volunteer. And it's not like I got to the Academy like you or anything." His tone was contemplative. "And you know what else?"

"Oh, hear we go again…" I said, bracing myself and rolling my eyes.

"Don't make that face!" he shot back. "I was thinking the other day… why do you have to pay for all that special training? I hear in One and Two it's mandatory for everyone to have it. If the officials didn't care so much about the pointless stuff, and actually made training free, we'd have more kids win."

"You should be a politician," is all I say.

"No one would listen to me."

"I would."

"You don't count!"

"Yes I do!" I said. Half-jokingly, half-annoyed, I grabbed the shirt that was on the log at flung it at his head. Senneth caught it in his hands, turned it over delicately, and looked at the tag on the inside of the collar.

"Cotton-blend. Terrifying."

* * *

The knock on my door is measured and careful. "Elise? Can I come in?"

I look down at the book propped up on my knees, the book I'm supposed to be reading for school, and realize in the past hour I've hardly managed to read five pages of it. I close the book and my eyes, and exhale, trying to refocus my thoughts. "Yeah."

The door cracks, my father's silver head emerges, and he steps in. "Want some dinner?"

"No, that's okay, the interviews are going to start in a couple minutes."

"We can eat in front of the T.V." he suggests. I raise my eyebrows at this radical suggestion. There are a lot of rules about what we can and can't do in the house. No eating in the living room is one of the many.

"Okay."

"Great, I'll see you down in a couple of minutes."

When I get down to the kitchen, I realize why my father made the recommendation of eating in the living room. My mother, usually around making sure the meal finishes cooking exactly the way the recipe says, is not around at all. Not even a wisp of evidence of her is in the kitchen, because the dirtied pots and pans are in the sink instead of washed and dried, and the herbs are still on the marble counter, instead of being capped off and put in the cupboard.

"Where's Mom?" I ask, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet.

"She got caught up at work," my dad admits as he follows my suit. "Soup's on."

Typical. She threatens me to stay home for the interviews and doesn't even show to watch them. If my Dad wasn't here right now, I would go over to the Herons' to talk with Anna about ways to generate support for Liam and Sen. Maybe she has invited Isaac over, and they're going over ideas now.

The piping hot soup is thick with beef and vegetables. It feels weird, sitting on the lush and modern white couches eating dinner in our laps. The widescreen hums with commercials for a few minutes, and then the Capitol seal is up on the screen, while music and images follow to intro the interviews.

The interviewers of the Hunger Games are a brother and sister pair, Cerris and Bracchus Barson. The two are infamous in the Capitol and the Districts alike for their outrageous behavior in the interviews and at the Capitol's events. Their energy is unfiltered and often times all over the place, and each year, you have tributes who either keep up with them during the interviews or are completely overshadowed by the hosts. The latter usually lose.

They both have black hair, though it's an unnaturally pure and dark shade, with the characteristically Capitol porcelain skin acquired from surgery. Bracchus's hair is almost its own entity, and is something of a popular reference in the occasional conversation. His hair is buzzed fairly close, but lines of even shorter hair have been trimmed all over his head, so his hair resembles the pattern of a maze some years, or something more fluid for others.

"If you don't finish your dinner," my father tells me gravely, "I'm going to cut my hair like "Bracchus's."

I laugh and start on the second half of my bowl's contents. Maybe my mother and I were close when I was growing up, but my father's been the one who's more willing to here my side of the case during our conflicts. I'm not exactly sure if he's okay with my past friendship with Senneth, and my going out with Liam, though. He agrees with my Mom one most of her rules and decisions when it comes to my upraising, there are certain concessions he's willing to make. Like dinner on the couch.

The show starts, and the cameras pan around the expansive, white ornate stage set up in the City Circle. Our hosts take the stage, with Bracchus in a bright yellow suit, and Cerris in a similarly colored dress. Her obsidian hair has been pulled back into a high bun to accentuate her surgical augmentations. The two start off with their opening routine of patronizing each other, the outfits from the tribute parade, and the trials and tribulations of Bracchus's famous haircut. When their opening routine ends, and two or three commercials play out, they waste no time interviewing the tributes.

Five minutes.

That's how long the tributes have to make an impression on the Capitol, the sponsors, and the entire country. Once a tribute's in the arena, it's very hard to change their image for the better following a forgettable interview. So they each have five minutes to tell a story, win the crowd, and possibly save their life.

The District One girl's name is Rowen, and, owing to her stylists, is picturesque in deep teal dress laced with gold. Her hair flows, her teeth flash, and her eyes sparkle. Rowen's personality is just as effervescent as her appearance, except for one flaw she failed to calculate. She's too fake. Despite the good natured touching, smiling, and laughing, there's an undercurrent of two-facedness, suggesting she's been practicing her answers and responses for weeks, with no real interest in what the hosts are doing. Her partner, Hudson, is a little more agreeable, and very pretty for a boy. At least, not the kind of tribute who looks willing to get into the dirt and blood of it all. He tries his hand at bantering with Bracchus on who spends more time doing his hair, and elects that the crowd make a vote by screaming for the preferred choice. Bracchus goes first, and garners a deafening response. There's no way Hudson would be able to beat him out, except that when the audience starts cheering for him, he gives them a sultry wink and runs a hand through his hair. The response beats the first by miles.

"That was a good move on his mentor's part," my dad says absent-mindedly watching Bracchus pat Hudson on the back.

"You don't think he came up with that on his own?" I asked.

"Oh, no doubt," my father said. "These tributes, they're whoever their mentors want them to be."

The District Two tributes, however, seem to be completely themselves, as sullen, hostile, and ruthless killing machines. Cyrus, the boy with cold metallic eyes, only actually smiles once, when Cerris compliments his training score, and otherwise the most memorable thing he says is, "I've been wanting to be in the Hunger Games my whole life, and to be voted to represent my District feels… it's better than what I could have hoped for."

It's apparent this is what he takes the most pride in, that, out of all the monstrous District Two boys who devote their lives to their training, he was voted the best of the best.

When I first see the girl, Lena, I assume she's going to be a version similar to Rowen. She's dark-haired, with glinting green eyes. Where Rowen had almost a garishly upfront beauty, hers is more subtly. He gown is silver and ethereal, tailored to her body like gossamer mist. But once she sits down, it's clear she has not intentions of forming any friendships, not even in her alliances.

For most of the interview, the hosts work on trying to get a laugh from her, or an answer that's more an than syllable. Despite all their tricks, Bracchus and Cerris can hardly get anything pleasant out of her.

"So, Lena, can you give us any hints on how you got that eleven?" Brachcus pleads.

"No, I can't. I'm sorry," she says unapologetically.

"Puh-_lease_." Cerris implores.

"No-_oo_," Lena echoes, and the crowd bursts into laughter at her mimicry. Lena seems surprised, and, if anything else, slightly annoyed that they've found her funny.

The District Threes, while both on the scrawny side, are presented well-enough, though, going after One and Two, and before Four, often makes them look pale and unattractive in comparison. The crowd is itching for the next, waiting on their boys from District Four.

And so am I.

"Our next two tributes got off to an unusual start on Reaping Day," Bracchus says to the camera as the District Three girl walks off stage shyly. "Liam Heron and Senneth Orrick both tied their votes for the selected male tribute from District Four, and exempted their female competitor. Making their Capitol debut, please help me welcome the first tribute from District Four, Senneth Orrick!"

The crowd booms with anticipation and craze as Senneth walks on stage. And he immediately projects confidence and elegance. Senneth's dark blonde hair is smoothed back and compliments his face. He's dressed simply, in a black suit cut to fit his frame perfectly, and a white dress shirt, with the top buttons undone.

No tie, just relaxed, seemingly understated, but completely magnetic.

"Sen-_neth_!" Cerris chimes in her Capitol accent.

"Cer-_ris_…" Senneth replies, like he's copying Cerris, Lena, or both. The crowd immediately laughs. He actually takes her hand and _kisses_ it, looking at her almost longingly, and this gets a few hushed shrieks from the girl portion of the audience, while Cerris pretends to hyperventilate from excitement.

Once he situations himself in the large thronelike chair, Cerris and Bracchus, like two bees with their yellow outfits and black hair, begin buzzing him with questions. They move from the dramatic Reaping, to fishing, to being in the Capitol itself. Senneth responds slowly, as if he's afraid to give too much away, but there's a quality in his words, something electric, that keeps the audience hanging onto everything he says.

"Now, what's your strategy for the Games?" Cerris breathes, leaning in close to him.

Senneth looks at her intensely, like this will be his most important answer yet. The City Circle goes completely silent, and I realize I'm gripping the armchair of the couch myself.

The crowd holds its breath, waiting to know more about this mysterious tribute.

"To win."

Everyone breaks into laughter and applause, and Senneth sits back, looking a little relieved at the reaction. Cerris is so fixed with him, she's practically running the entire interview, leaving her brother to only laugh along or nod occasionally. By the end of the interview, she's fawning over him so much, that when Senneth leaves, Cerris is visibly upset.

"He did well," my father says.

"Yeah, he did," I agree, smiling.

"_You should be a politician," is all I say._

"_No one would listen to me."_

"_I would."_

"_You don't count!"_

Senneth.

I guess people ended up listening to him after all.

Bracchus, by this point, is starved for time with the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says in a flustered voice, "give it up for District Four's second tribute, Liam Heron!"

I give Liam my own small ovation, and my father turns his head with a shade of a smile on his lips. He walks across stage handsomely, long-legged and broad-shouldered. He's in a light gray suit, almost the same color as Lena's dress. His dress shirt is a pale blue, and his tie's a fitting shade of navy. The stylists must have been trying to accent his eyes, because his dark blue eyes are burning and bright on the television screen. The stylists have actually cut his dark brown hair shorter, so it no longer hangs by his eyes, but is styled so it is still somewhat tousled and unkempt.

The hosts and Liam take their seats, and the audience eventually dies down.

"Now, Liam, you scored a nine," Bracchus says seriously. "Tell me, was that based on your skill, or your looks?"

Before Liam can even respond, the crowd is roaring again with approval. On the screen behind them, a picture of Liam in his tribute costume appears, and this only increases the noise of the City Circle. My father actually reaches for the remote and turns the volume down several notches, shaking his head at the Capitol citizens with disapproval. Liam rubs the back of his head nervously, and shrugs almost sheepishly.

"No, no, no," Cerris shouts above the last remnants of noise. "If we were scoring him on looks, we'd give him a twelve, right, folks?"

They scream in agreement. A part of me wonders why these people never seem to get hoarse after two hours of next thing Bracchus says is the most catastrophic yet. "Now, Liam, you're a good looking fellow. Why don't you remove your shirt if so many of the ladies think you deserve a twelve?"

My heart jumps a little bit at Bracchus's request. The City Circle audience no longer resembles a group of people so much as half-starved, half-crazed hyenas, looking at Liam as if he were a piece of meat. My father mutes the television and says something under his breath until Liam can get his next sentence out.

"I would, but my mentor, Addison, already had me take off my shirt." He points to Addison Balemen in the crowd, and the cameras find her.

She's just as much of a bombshell as she's always been, dressed in a classic black dress that still manages to accentuate every aspect of her body. She runs a hand through her honey-colored hair, like she's both flattered and astonished to be recognized. Addison's handed a microphone, and says guiltily, on behalf of Liam, "It's true, I will not deny it. I made Liam and Senneth take off their shirts for me. I can promise you, though; they're both twelves in my book." The audience claps, and Liam resettles himself in his seat, effectively saved from having to be half-naked in front of millions of people.

"Liam, tell me," Cerris implores him, "and the rest of the girls here… are you single?"

"I am not."

A thousand collective groans.

"What's her name?"

"Elise."

Liam then proceeds to tell the entire country, at Bracchus's request, how we met. My heart beats strongly and quickly during his whole interview, but especially during this part. He spares no details, including him running into me with a crate of freshly caught fish. He looks at the camera, directly at me, and grins.

"Sorry Elise, I had to. But nothing says 'I love you,' like dead fish, right?" His eyes shine, and his smile's wide.

My heart sinks.

The night President Anderson announced what the First Quarter Quell would be, Liam had given me his catch from that day, a Sand Dart, to bring home to my family. I had taken it, and told him, "Nothing says, 'I love you,' like dead fish."

Hearing Liam say it now makes me think that I've taken him for granted, though I know that wasn't his intention. It was meant to be funny, if anything. But it ends up tearing a whole in my heart, and I cover my eyes so my father won't see the tears spilling threatening to spill over my lids.

Finally,as the audience has finally been subdued, Bracchus guides Liam to the subject of his dead brother Graham. "We had the pleasure of interviewing your brother eight years ago," Bracchus says. "And he was from District Three. Now you're here, representing District Four. Do you have anything you want to say?"

Liam grips the arms of his chair, and readjusts how he's sitting. He looks down, and then up. "I miss Graham a lot. There's nothing I can do to bring him back, but if I try, I know I can get myself home. I need to, I have to. For Graham, my family… Elise."

The silence is so thick in our living room, in the City Circle; it could stretch for thousands of miles.

I wonder how the Herons must be feeling, watching their second son, a second brother, go through these. What would happen if they lost Liam in addition to Graham. The grief seems like it would be unbearable to me alone. I couldn't imagine it twice as heavy, as deep, as dark.

Liam's interview is over, and by far is the most favored one of the night. The audience actually gives him a standing ovation as he walks off stage, sober but smiling, waving good-bye to the cameras.

This is all District Four's fault.

It's their fault that Liam, and even Senneth, are being sentenced to a death fight on their wishes, simply because they tied their votes. Because of them, because of what they did, two of the best, kindest, and most loving people I know may both be dead in a matter of days or weeks. My heart has never felt so empty, and so heavy. The pain is frightening, and the fear of losing them is paralyzing.

It's cruel for the people of District Four, out of all the CITs, those who would happily go to fight and die, to choose Liam. He's not a CIT. He's a migrant from District Three, who's been given so much scorn and hatred just because his father found a job that helps both his family and our District. Even Liam's brother Graham would be enough to take him out of the tribute elections.

And Senneth, the boy who's always had to work ten times harder than any of the CITs to get just as far as them, has been put into the arena, without any training. Why couldn't the people of District Four see his mother is ill, or how hard he and his father have worked to provide the bare minimum? Why couldn't they see that Liam's brother was dead from the very Games they picked him for?

Why?

The seconds are agonizing as my emotions scream in my head. Fear, anger, sorrow, grief, anxiety.

Why…

And then, somehow, the answer comes to me. It's so clear, so shocking, an instinctual part of me knows it has to be right. It just has to.

The people of District Four, if they were truly choosing who they wanted to, then they wouldn't haven chosen a migrant from District Three, who they hate. They wouldn't have chosen a full-time fisher who hasn't had any training for the Hunger Games.

No, they would've chosen one of their many CITs, a lifelong resident of District Four, if it was up to them.

But it wasn't.

Liam and Senneth are in the Hunger Games, not because District Four wants them to be.

But because someone else does, someone connected to Senneth, to Liam, and to me.

Someone who wants them dead.

* * *

_Author's Note: now that you've read, tell me what you think? This initial idea, that one could actually rig the Hunger Games, or sabotage them, actually started this story for me. So Elise's POV will mainly now be spent figuring out who this person(s) is(are). Thank you for reading! : ) - BTM_


	9. Liam :: The Dream

_Well, I met you at the blood bank_  
_ We were looking at the bags_  
_ Wondering if any of the colors_  
_ Matched any of the names we knew on the tags_

_ You said, see look that's yours_  
_ Stacked on top with your brother's_  
_ See how the resemble one another_  
_ Even in their plastic little covers_

_- Bon Iver, "Blood Bank"_

* * *

Chapter Nine – Liam – The Dream

"Ladies and gentlemen – the victor of the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games – Liam Heron!"

The ground seems to resist my hands as I push myself up. The effort itself is exhausting, like my bones are iron and my skin is stone. My head is heavy, too – I look around the arena to get a grip on my surroundings, but everything's in a milky, blurred haze. I try to make out the smudge of green in my field of vision, and I breathe in the air, trying to get a decent bearing.

"Liam!"

The voice paralyzes me, forces me to steady myself.

That voice… I've played it back in my head countless times. But I never expected it to sound so _young_.

Then again, I haven't heard it in eight years.

I turn around, my world spinning, shifting, changing, and my eyes focus on the boy only a couple strides in front of me.

"Graham!"

I run to him, and the hug is more like a collision than an embrace. My arms wrap around him, and he flinches, as though he's been caught off-guard. When we push away, I get a better look at him. He's the same as the day we said goodbye – only fifteen, with the same blue eyes and brown hair as me. The only difference is his face, which is more pointed and is flecked with freckles.

"Graham, God, I've missed you," I start to stay. "I…" he doesn't respond, and my words fade. Graham isn't looking at me; rather, his gaze is fixed on a point to the right of me. I turn, and see that Anna is stepping out of the shadows, arms folded, her eyes trained on me. Elise follows a few feet to the side of her.

I try to think of something to say, but the words are caught in my throat, and my lips refuse to move. A second later, I hear a rustling, and turn to my left, and see my parents coming from the opposite direction.

They form a circle around me.

Then, like a pressure drop, a chilled wind blows across my skin. A shiver runs through me like a river in winter. I feel my flesh stinging and burning, and look down to my hands: they're raw and bloody. My palms are scraped, and rivulets of blood mix with the dirt on my arms. Limbs heavy, I hold my hands up in front of me, stupefied. I can't remember the fight with the tribute before the announcer's cry, or anything before that.

Even when I look around, there is no tribute, no hovercraft here to take me.

Just them, surrounding me.

"Elise… Anna…" the words are thick and hoarse as I choke them out. "What…?"

I have a million questions, but not one of them comes out. Then, Graham nods towards my bloodied hands. I look down at them again, and see they are just as red as ever. I take the palm of my left hand and run it down my right forearm, trying to wipe some of the blood away. While I get most of it off, I'm surprised that there aren't any gashes or tears in my skin.

I shift my gaze to my family again, just in time to see them descend on me.

The ground hits me so hard, so fast, the blurred landscape starts spinning sideways in front of me. I try to turn on my stomach to prop myself up, but they're everywhere, on my hands, feet, back, pinning me to the ground. Tearing at my shirt and hair. A cry is torn from my throat as a sharp, searing pain explodes in my leg. Thrashing, I catch a glimpse of Graham's eyes. They're not as blue as I thought they were. In fact, they look almost violet for a moment.

But then I realize that's because they're flecked with red.

All of their eyes are.

I realize what they… what I am… when their fingernails burrow into my flesh.

* * *

"Liam! Jesus Christ, how do you wake up?"

Addison's angular, angry face is hanging above me. Our foreheads almost bash together as I shoot upwards into a sitting position. The current of the bedroom fan is cold against the coat of sweat on my skin, and I shiver.

"Do you always scream in your sleep?" she says curiously.

"What? Uh... no." I pant, rubbing my eyes. "I was screaming?"

"Not reall - well, kind-of. Anyway, get up. I only have a couple of more hours with you before the Games, and we have a lot to review. How soon can you be ready?"

I roll over onto my stomach, shielding my eyes from the bright overhead light. "I don't know… ten minutes?"

"Wrong. Be down in five." She says with too much verve in her voice. I pull the covers up over my body again, trying to take away the involuntary shudders coursing through my limbs. I hear Addison mumbling under her breath as she sits up from my bed and pads across my room.

"Remember: five minutes."

The door slams, and it echoes a thousand times over in my head.

I take several long, deep breathes in the darkness of the covers before I can will myself to get up. That nightmare is definitely a new one for me. Throwing the covers off, I realize that my torso is bare. I must have taken my shirt off in the middle of the night. Going to the closet by my bed, I take out a simple black shirt. The door to the bathroom is open, and through it, I can see my reflection in the mirror above the sink.

I turn to the right and the left, evaluating my frame after days of stuffing myself with Capitol food and training hard with Senneth and Vera. Already I've fleshed out a few pounds. Eating plenty of fish and working for years in the Fishing Sectors had given me a fairly average frame, hell, well above average the boys in District Three, but nothing like the ones Cyrus or Hudson have: thick, with a deep chest, and imposing. Now, the difference is already noticeable after a few days of my new regiment. Good; I'll need it for the arena.

I pull the black shirt over my head, and notice it's more fitted than before.

Even my hair is new-and-improved now, according to my stylists who fretted over it all last night before the interviews. They washed it and dried it and washed it again, standing over my like surgeons. There were four of them, all girls, each garish and decked out in ruffles or high, wide collars, or some other ridiculous outfit. Each of them seemed to favor a color: one's ensemble was entirely pink, while the most experienced one was dressed in all black.

Either way, they all had something to say about which way to part or comb my hair, or which product to use, until Addison finally barked from the corner, "For the love of… Why don't you just cut it?"

Now, running a hand through my hair, it's a lot shorter; none of it hangs above my eyes like it used to. "You'll thank me later," Addison insisted that night. "When you're in the arena, you'll be covered in blood and dirt. A big, greasy tangle of hair on your head should be the least of your worries, right?"

I wonder what Elise thought of it last night… I wonder what she thought of the whole interview. Me dressed in Capitol clothes, eating Capitol food… it's quite a departure from District Three, and even Four. At least Addison, Senneth, and even Rutledge were ecstatic after I walked off stage. Apparently, Senneth and I had both hit all of our marks, and despite being independent from the Career pack, the sponsors should be tempted enough to start betting on us. As far as Harper goes… well, the fallout from the night of the scores didn't do anything to improve whatever relationship I had with him up to that point. He's become even more distant and solemn.

The breakfast table is just as filled with food and extravagant as ever, but, when I sit down, Addison offers me her drink: a tall red glass filled with a bright red drink. "Have a sip."

"What is that, a bloody mary?"

"No, pig's blood. What do you think?"

"I'm alright; thanks."

"Fine, if you insist." But she leaves it by me and orders a new one.

I'm loading up on eggs, toast, and bacon when Senneth comes in, sleep-eyed, with a head of rumpled hair. He looks bitter, and that's when I notice drops of water dripping off the ends of his hair and onto his shoulders.

"Did Addison pour a glass of water onto you, too?" he asks darkly. Senneth takes an empty mug from a nearby table and fills it with coffee from a waiting pot.

"Umm…no," I mumble.

"But Liam didn't throw a pillow at me." Addison points her fork at Senneth, flicking it up and down with the authority of a dictator. "I don't have time for you guys to sleep in. Eat up."

Senneth starts helping himself to the fare, and a moment later Rutledge shuffles in, his purple hair smoothed down, sporting a set of emerald, silk pajamas. He claps his hands together. "I just want to congratulate our two tributes on being dashing, debonair gentlemen last night. I'll be the first to admit it," he says, as if everyone is thinking it, "I didn't think you two could pull it off. But even I can be surprised. District Four has more hope this year than I thought."

"Should I be flattered, or insulted?" I ask with a grin.

Rutledge is clearly confused. "The first." He says in all seriousness, with a furrowed brow.

"On that note…" Addison interrupts, taking a long sip from her drink, "I hope you two talked to Vera that you plan to go into the bloodbath?"

"Mmmhmmm." I hum, mouth full. I swallow dryly. "But we shouldn't plan on spending too much time there, right? I mean, the Careers and a couple of other tributes are going to be there, aren't they?"

"Yeah, of course." Senneth agrees. "But the past years in the bloodbath… the tributes who aren't Careers are the ones to get killed, but since these kids were voted on by the Districts, who knows? They might actually be good."

I nod. From the training sessions, the lowest score anyone got was a five, and that was a girl from District Nine. While it isn't exactly a good score, most years the tributes from districts like Eleven and Twelve gets ones and twos, but they got sixes this year. It's enough to make even the Careers nervous.

Addison looks at her silver wristwatch. "Okay. The Games start at 5:00 exactly. That means you two have to be in your positions by 4:30. Which means… we leave the Tribute Center at 4:00. It's 7:16 right now: you have about nine hours. What do you want to review?"

"Sponsors." Senneth immediately suggests. "How much control do we get to have over what we get in the arena?"

"Almost none." Addison says, pushing her honey-colored hair out of her eyes. "You can scream at the cameras, 'Hey, Addison, I really need some medicine,' but really, I'm going to be the one deciding how to spend sponsor donations… assuming we actually get enough to spend. And, it's just my personal preference – call me playing it safe – but if we even get enough donations to use, you guys won't see it from me until the competition starts getting thin, unless you're about to die."

"But wouldn't your money go farther at the beginning?" I ask.

She shrugs. "You two will get to the finals. That I'm almost confident about. I'd rather give you guys a final boost at the end… and you'll have a better chance to win."

We spend the next two hours going over questions-and-answers with Addison. Sponsors, tactical moves, fight strategies and combinations; she seems to know everything. Maybe its part of the guilt she's suffered over the years from being a victor. That, in order to advance her tributes the farthest they can go, she knows vast amounts of information and studies all the past Games meticulously. Even the ones she wasn't a mentor for.

"Remember the tenth Games?" she would say. "The tribute from Five left his tracks in the snow, and gave the Careers a straight path to him. Don't ever, ever, leave a trace."

When lunch time comes, Addison relents and decides to give us an hour break, only because of how well we held up during the interrogation of edible plants. If my time in the Tribute Center is as limited as she says it is, then I have two things I need to do. One of them is that, discussing Games strategy, Addison doesn't want Vera going into the bloodbath right away. I've been chosen as the messenger, since there won't exactly be time to tell her in the arena.

"If she's only good with long-range weapons, then the Careers or another tribute could get her seriously injured before she gets an axe. I saw her; she looks small. I think it'd be better to clear some of the field first." Addison told Senneth and me.

But that's second on my list.

Instead of taking the elevator, I take a right down the long hallway and go to Harper's bedroom. When I knock on the door, it takes him a second to reach the door, accompanied by some banging and thuds. When he opens it, his eyes are bleary and his whole demeanor is worn-out. His hair, pre-maturely white from the stress of his Games, is unwashed and uncombed.

"Oh… Liam." He mumbles. "Is it time to leave?"

"Not exactly." I tell him, standing in the doorway. "Harper, I just – I just wanted to apologize for the other night. It wasn't right of me to make assumptions about you like that."

He leans against the doorway, a hand over his mouth. He lowers it. "Why are you apologizing? You hardly need to. It's me who should be asking for your forgiveness."

I look at him for a moment, and realize his words are genuine, despite the harshness behind them. "I only have a couple more hours before the arena, right? I didn't want to go in there with the other night between us. It just didn't feel right."

Maybe because he was drunk the night we argued, or the fact he is sober now, that Harper smiles. "You know, I've never had a tribute talk to me the way you did, and now here you are, apologizing. I have to say, I'm impressed."

I try to think of something to say, but all that comes out is a "thank-you."

Harper nods curtly, and swiftly starts to close the door.

"Good luck."

The wood of the door bangs against the wall.

His words catch me off guard, and before I can think about it, the corners of my mouth form a smile.

The elevator ride up to Vera's floor leaves me contemplating Harper's words, and his change from the night we fought. It seems almost too drastic a transformation. The only thing I can come up with is that his words to me, the ones about Elise, and the girl that broke his heart, might have sparked something in him. But what? Sympathy?

The thought that he pities me, because he thinks Elise will find someone else throughout the course of these Games, sits in the back of my mind like an unwelcomed, uninvited guest. The idea almost seems to fold its arms, cross its legs, and smirk at me with dark satisfaction.

Elise isn't the girl Harper loved, though. She's different. And, I don't even know the whole of Harper's story, so how can I really compare the two?

I shake my head, and rub my eyes, trying to erase the image of Elise with someone else out of mind. If anything, she should be my motivation to make it back alive, along with my family. Not something I should be worrying day and night about.

The elevator bell gives a short _ding_ to remind me I'm on Vera's floor, and the doors slide open like stage curtains. There's a small hall space before the double doors of District Seven's floor, sort of like a waiting area.

Vera's in the threshold of the double doors, in the middle of a conversation with Rowen and Cyrus that I've just walked in on.

She looks relieved to see me, and darts around Cyrus's massive frame. "Liam! What are you doing here?" Cyrus and Rowen turn to look at us.

"I came by to deliver some news." I say, and furrow my brow at the Careers. "Are you guys harassing my ally? Don't you get that no means no?"

A part of me regrets my tone, because, while I know Cyrus and Rowen can't do me serious harm here, they are both twice the size of Vera, and Cyrus might be more imposing than any of the CITs from District Four. I fix my stare on them.

Rowen, of all things, starts laughing. "District Four, you're so cute. I love it." The hall space is already small as it is, only a little bigger than the elevator, but she starts approaching me. I back up, trying to keep the distance even, but instead I'm greeted by the cold metal of the elevator doors. Taking her index finger, she traces the faint outline of my collarbone under my shirt. "Look at you, so big brother to come to poor little Vera's rescue."

I rotate my shoulder, and she takes back her hand, instead placing it on the elevator door, by my temple. "She doesn't need rescuing." My words are angry, but I can't focus them completely. I glare at Rowen, her bright eyes amused. "You might need it soon, though."

She grins, and leans in even closer, so that her lips are inches from mine. Rowen tries to press her body against my own, but I put my hands on her shoulders, and push her back. Before I can finish, though, she locks her hands around my neck, pulls into me, and I think for a moment she'll lean in to complete the distance between us. Her breathes are warm, even, and measured as they blow across my lips. "We'll see about that, District Four."

I glance around the room, unwilling to make eye contact with her, and see that both Cyrus and Vera are stunned. Vera is wide-eyed, unsure of what to do, or how to react, but Cyrus's steel-gray eyes burn with satisfaction.

Rowen then inclines her head, so her lips nearly touch my cheek, and whispers to me: "I'm sure your girlfriend will enjoy seeing _this on television_."

"Get the _fuck_ _off_ of me!" I shout. Steaming blood rushes and swells the veins in my neck and face, flowing just under my flesh. My voice is so loud and heavy, it stings my throat. "Leave now, or I'll make you wish you had."

Rowen steps back, shrieking, and almost falls over. Cyrus steadies her as she bumps against him, and glares at me. "I can't wait to listen to you scream when I tear you apart." These being the first words he has spoken directly, individually to me, I'm momentarily startled. But realized what Rowen's just done, with fresh, hot waves of hatred coursing through me, it hardly matters.

"Get. Out."

I'm suddenly dipping backwards, and turn around to see the elevator doors parting. Hudson is in the elevator, and immediately confused when he sees the scene he's confronted with. "Cyrus, Rowen, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." Cyrus says. "We're going. Rowen." He turns to the girl, and she smiles brightly.

"Sorry, Hudson." As Rowen steps into the elevator, she lifts a finger and traces the outline of her District partner's collarbone. Hudson's eyes light up, and, grinning, he drapes an arm around her.

Cyrus files in, and Hudson, as a good-bye, says, "See you soon, Liam! Vera!" The polished gold doors close and cut off the sound of their suppressed laughter.

"Oh, Liam, I'm… I'm so sorry…" Vera says, her voice faint.

I look up, and my stomach falls.

The security camera stares down at me.

* * *

**Wooo. That was an intense chapter to right. I know I didn't elaborate on the dream much, but Liam's going to have a whole deal on it in the next chapter, when the Games start. And you'll get to see what Elise thinks of Rowen's little stunt! Thoughts? Do you like Rowen as the evil-Career? She's probably the nastiest of them all, at least in my mind. She'd much rather toy with your mind. Cyrus and Hudson would just prefer to rip you apart. Leave a review! Let me know what you think! BTM**

**PS - I also posted the song lyrics because, for me, they embody the worst part of the Hunger Games in a very subtle, metaphoric way. Everyone's blood is the same, and it all gets spilled. Alright. I'm done.  
**


	10. Liam :: Send Off

_Author's Note: OKAY, I PROMISE this is the last thing before the Games. The bloodbath is Chapter Elevan, and don't it will be Liam's POV. I'll try to have it today or tomorrow. A quick shout out to ASB and Cherrybubble for reviewing! Alright. That should do it. Thanks for reading! BTM_

Chapter 10 – Liam – The Send-Off

The only sound is that of the overhead lights, humming a soft monotone pitch.

The room is bright, gray, and cold, with plain tiles and impersonal walls. The whole of it feels skeletal. Even the chair I'm sitting in, which is only a simple metal design. Only a few feet to my right is the loading platform, which, in about ten minutes, will take me into the arena of the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games.

A few minutes ago, an Avox delivered my arena attire. Usually it can give the tributes some early clue as to what the arena will be, like a parka for an arctic wasteland, or white robes for a desert. But these clothes are fairly commonplace: khaki shorts just above the knee, and sandals made out of a synthetic kind of leather – I'm not exactly sure. I've seen some form of it in District Four – it must be designed for several different types of terrain. My shirt is lightweight, long-sleeved, and navy, with a white "4" over the heart.

Despite the Games really only being moments away, all I can focus on is what happened between Rowen and me outside the elevator. Now that the security cameras have that footage, it's almost a guarantee that whoever is in charge of the Tribute Center will sell it to the media. From then on, it could get cut or reshaped into a hundred different ways. After that, the footage of Rowen pressed up against me would be broadcasted nationally. That's the media's job: more drama, more intrigue, more viewers.

And Elise.

My stomach feels as though it's clutched in someone's fisted: compressed and twisted. It nauseates me. I can say anything I want to the cameras once I'm in the arena, but how do you defend yourself when the footage will be rearranged specifically to incriminate me?

As far as speculation goes, Rowen has played her cards so that there is footage of her being intimate with Hudson and, of course, her pressed against me. Maybe even her District fling is in on her games as well? Given all their options, the media will be carefully deciding on which story to tell. They certainly wouldn't want it to conflict with anything that actually plays out in the arena.

Either way, Rowen has ensured that every eye will be on her.

Telling Vera our news involving the bloodbath seemed almost pathetic on my part after the Careers left. But after I did, Addison and Senneth spent the next hours trying without success to dampen my concerns. The only thing else on my mind is my dream from last night, which I haven't told anyone about yet. I'm not even sure myself how to take it.

Suddenly, the door opens. I've been so frozen, so stiff, the sound shoots through me like a bolt of electricity.

It's Addison.

"Oh, don't look so surprised." She sighs, and closes the door. "Did you really think I was going to let one of those circus freaks send you off?" I can't help but grin at her reference to my stylist team.

"No, but I'm glad you didn't anyway." I say. "You want my seat? I don't really see any other chairs."

She shakes her head, and sits on the ground. I lower myself into the chair again.

"I practically assaulted Rutledge to let me see you off. He almost sent Harper here, but I got him to go with Senneth."

"Oh, that's fine. I apologized to Harper anyway… and he did something weird."

"What?"

"He wished me good luck."

"Oh… Yeah. That is weird. Very un-Harper-ish."

We both smile, but no one says anything after.

She puts her hands on my knees, and looks at me. Addison's green eyes reflect the harsh overhead lights, which give her skin a milky complexion. "You know you can win this thing, right?"

I don't say anything.

"All I mean," she continues, "is that you have the skills, the smarts, everything you need."

"Yeah, except one thing." My voice is hollow.

"What?" she asks, her brow furrowed.

"…Addison? How did you kill other tributes?" I pause, the images from last night weighing heavily on my mind from last night.

_I feel my flesh stinging and burning, and look down to my hands: they're raw and bloody. My palms are scraped, and rivulets of blood mix with the dirt on my arms… I can't remember the fight with the tribute before the announcer's cry, or anything before that._

_I take the palm of my left hand and run it down my right forearm, trying to wipe some of the blood away. While I get most of it off, I'm surprised that there aren't any gashes or tears in my skin._

_Thrashing, I catch a glimpse of Graham's eyes. They're not as blue as I thought they were. In fact, they look almost violet for a moment._

_But then I realize that's because they're flecked with red._

_All of their eyes are. _

…_their fingernails burrow into my flesh._

"I had this dream last night. I won the Hunger Games, and my family… they all came out to meet me. There was no other tribute, no hovercraft. Just me and them, you know? But, they weren't talking… wouldn't talk, I mean. My brother, he was there. Graham. And my arms, my arms were covered in blood, and he told me to wipe my arms off. And, when I did, there wasn't anything wrong with my skin."

"So, what does that mean?"

"It means I was up to my elbows in another tribute's blood." I say slowly; though I've already come to the conclusion, it still shocks me. The words hit me hard, and the image blooms in front of my eyes again. "I was a monster. And then my family, they attacked me. And their eyes were… they had bits of red in them."

Addison pulls her lower lip back, taking my words in. "In my Games, the mutt version of my twin had red in its eyes."

"So did Graham's."

She leans back on her hands. "Okay, so you killed another tribute, there was a lot of blood, and then you died the same why your brother did…" her words trail off as she finished the sentence. "You think that's some sort of omen?"

I shrug half-way.

Addison repositions herself, so she's sitting upright, and places her hands on my forearms. Her hands are surprisingly firm, dry and warm against my skin.

"What I think that dream is… it's your brother's death haunting you. You've been carrying that around for eight years. But you can't let Graham's death… you can't let that awful thing Rowen did to you… mess you up. You have your brother's memory, you have your family, and you have a girl back home who loves you. Just keep that in mind, and it'll get you through the Games."

Addison's eyes are bright and burning emeralds. "That's how I was able to take those tributes' lives." She whispers. "Just the thought of getting back to my twin sister was enough. You _will_ be different after the Games, but you have to accept the fact that to win, other people have to lose. You _won't_ be a monster. Maybe you don't remember, it was so long ago, but I volunteered for my Games."

Addison's right: I have no recollection that she volunteered, and the idea strikes me as outrageous. "But... why? I thought..."

She smiles and nods. "Yeah, I was different back then. I entered the Games because I wanted the title, the fame, everything that comes along with being a winner. My parents were responsible for that, I suppose. But the day I left, my twin, she told me to come back for her, not the title. And after I killed my first tribute, I saw what she meant. There's a difference between killing for a title and killing to get back home; at least, that's how I had to see it then."

"But you hate yourself for it." I suddenly say. "Don't you?"

She smiles sadly, and inclines her head. "Yes. The price was steep, but it was something I couldn't afford to lose-."

A blaring bell cuts through the air, and Addison jumps a little at the sound of it.

Both of our eyes widen. "Better get you in position." Addison says, though something in her tone is unsteady.

We both stand, and, without warning, Addison hugs me. It takes less than a moment for me to return it, though. Standing here in her embrace is perhaps the calmest I've felt since my name was called on Reaping Day. I remember the first night I met Addison, less than a week ago, when she said she had to repay me because she won her Games. Now, after everything she's given me, the advice, the support, the peace of mind, a part of me can't help but think it should be the other way around.

She gives me a final squeeze, and we pull apart.

Addison smiles. "You know, I never talked to your brother, but he was an amazing person. When the tributes were in the hovercraft on the way to the arena, he was sitting next to this thirteen-year-old from District Ten. The boy was so small, with black hair. He was absolutely terrified. Your brother talked to that boy the whole ride over." She smiles at the thought. "Even made him laugh."

I grin widely, and the whole sensation seems to spread throughout my body. "Yeah, that sounds like Graham."

The final warning bell, indicating that I have less than a minute left, rings. "See you soon." Addison says.

"You too." I reply. "Thanks for everything, Addison."

She shakes her head. "You're welcome."

I step onto the circular metal plate, and it lights up as it senses me weight.

My heart begins to pound faster as the silence stretches longer. I pull my shoulders back, and inhale deeply.

The glass cylinder slides up to encase me quickly, and the plate starts rising.

I look down, my thoughts racing, and the image of Addison waving is cut off by the sudden darkness of the walls surrounding me.

I have to win.

For my parents.

For Anna.

For Graham.

For Elise.

You can do this, Liam.

The darkness is so thick, so silent, it reminds me of sleep.

Then…

I smell saltwater on the air.


	11. Liam :: The Games

_All wars are civil wars, because all men are brothers. _

- François Fénelon

* * *

Chapter Eleven – Liam – The Games

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games begin!"

_60_

We're on a plateau gouged from mountainous, rocky hills. The Cornucopia has been carved out of smooth white stone, and resembles a statue in the sunlight. Its gaping mouth is overflowing with crates of oranges, several backpacks, racks of weapons, metal kits that could contain anything, and other supplies.

_51_

The twenty-four tributes are all the same distance away from its contents, and equally spaced. Each District has a different colored shirt, with a white number over the heart of each. I can see Vera, in a hunter-green shirt, almost completely on the other side of the circle. To my immediate right is the girl from District Twelve.

_45_

I try to take in as much of the arena as I can, but the sunlight is too bright, almost blinding. I can make out steep cliffs in the distance; we're already high up as it is, and I can tell that navigating the landscape is going to be an immediate challenge. The water that I'm able to see far off is a beautiful, deep, dark blue, glinting with white in the sunshine. A thrill of hope rushes through me at the thought that the arena could be an island; it fills my head with pictures of coves, hidden outcrops, perfect for hiding and fishing – the perfect base camp to have for these Games.

_37_

I look to the Cornucopia again, deciding which item to get first. Almost immediately, the glint of the spears finds my eyes, like a magnet. The rack of spears is in the middle of the my plate and the Cornucopia's tail, by a drawstring bag. I set my stance towards it.

_29_

I look around for Senneth and the Careers. I sweep over the tributes – the Careers are fairly far away, and spaced out. The closest one to me is Lena, about five from my left, and looking directly at me. I'm thrown for a moment. Is she planning to kill me from the start? My eyes fleet back to the clock.

_16_

Involuntarily, the image of Elise watching the Games with my family materializes in front of me. I inhale until my lungs threaten to burst, and shake my head. I'm grateful for the new flood of adrenaline that seems to boil my blood and invigorate every fiber of my muscles. The rush my body is on allows me to push Elise and my family away.

_10_

_9_

_8_

_7_

_6_

_5_

_4_

_3_

_2_

_1_

My vision narrows, and the field turns into a tunnel.

Wind whips my shirt, and dust flies around me.

For a few brief seconds, the only sounds are heels dug into the ground, wind on the water.

The sprint to the spears leaves my heart pounding and my senses spinning. On the metal racks, each spear is encased in a leather. There are three in this set: I grab the spears and pull them on so they're slung across my torso. I'm not very nimble; my arm gets partially tangled in the leather straps and I have to tug it free so they're secure on my back. I turn to retrieve the drawstring bag, but the girl from Twelve already has her fingers through the strings and is pulling it up – My hand flies to one of my spears, and it glides easily out of its leather holdings. In an arc, I swing the spear in front of me. The angled spearhead catches her in the abdomen.

She cries out, and, falling down, turns to face me. Her eyes are bright with surprise and fear. I feel the spear sink into the flesh of her soft and yielding stomach. The spearhead comes away wet and red.

Under the shock, her eyes are bright: dark-rimmed, pale gray eyes. Like clouds, eclipsing the sun, haloed in light. I'm rooted to the ground as the girl from Twelve, the girl with bright eyes, backs away on her hands and feet. She breathes heavy, uneven breaths, and her eyes glisten. Brimming with tears. Like clouds threatening to rain. Suddenly, she turns around sharply, crying out again, and staggers to her feet, taking for the sparse trees. She nearly stumbles getting up, clutching her abdomen.

It's only been a matter of seconds, though it seems that it was much, much slower. Senneth's voice pulls me back."Don't just stand there! Start looking for supplies so we can get out of here!"

I turn around to see him with a scimitar – the kind of wide, curved sword he honed his skills on in training – is in his hand. It's laced with the same dripping shade of red as my spearhead, and his navy shirt has the earth's pale soil ground into it. Even his dark blonde hair is fittingly tangled.

"Better late than never, right?" I manage to get the words out, but it doesn't cover the emptiness of my tone. I look back; the girl is gone, but trail of maroon blood is sinking into the sandy soil.

Senneth smiles soberly. "Let's stick together, alright?"

I nod.

It's remarkable how, in a handful of seconds, the plateau has become a battlefield. Clouds of dust from kicked feet and fallen bodies infect the air. There's chaos and confusion in the air, mixed with the dissonance of cries and panic. I feel the beating in my heart reaching a crescendo, thumping against my ribs, as more tributes become covered in maroon mud, grabbing what they can, and running for their lives.

Spear in hand, we're in the thick of things. Some of the tributes are taking what they can without drawing too much attention, but about fifteen are here, going for the more valuable supplies. Everyone's clearing out fast. Even with the two of us, it's enough to make the remaining tributes steer clear. Senneth is clearly displeased. He must not want to chase down his tributes. I notice he's also belted a knife, which is other free hand lingers by.

There is a pair of tributes grappling over in the distance, but so far the Career's aren't in plain sight. No, I'm first made aware of their presence by the screams of their victims. The first one belongs to a boy, so loud it seems to burn itself into my memory, the kind of scream only made through ripped flesh and broken bones.

_Boom_.

The first cannon of the Games fires.

Despite all the cannons I've heard throughout the years, each year watching the Games, this cannon is somehow different from all the others I've heard. Maybe it's because I'm in the arena, in the middle of it all, or that it's a very real possibility I might be the next cannon.

Senneth whistles and I look to what he's indicating: ropes and netting sitting in loops on the ground, against the edge of the Cornucopia. I sprint over to the pile of ropes and sweep it off the ground. Tossing half of it to Senneth, the coils go over our torsos like banners, thick and heavy.

The turbulent air is punctured by another scream, this time from a girl. Sharp as a knife. It's higher than the boy's, more frightened. My blood turns cold.

_Boom_.

I hear a grunt and a noise that forces a fresh wave of panic into me. Turning around, I see a tall and brutish boys is bearing down on me with a long battle hammer. I bar myself with my spear in a moment, but the hammer comes down with so much force, it would have dented my forehead like a sheet of metal. The battle hammer is about as long as my spear, but it's a completely different weapon. Uncontrolled force against sharp precision; I'll have to stab him before he smashes me.

Then I recognize him as Vera's district partner, though I can't remember his name.

He swings again, the hammer whipping through the air, but I manage to back away from it. He's the same as the day I first saw him: all strength, but no aim. Senneth comes in, brandishing his scimitar, but he can't get aware close to the boy without risking a snapped spine or broken leg. Sen looks at me from the corner of his eye, clearly concerned.

The tribute's main strategy is to make long, lethal, sweeps with his hammer. It doesn't take him a long time to recover after each swing, but I decide that I won't need much time. I'll have to get him angry enough to lose focus and make a bad move, and then I'll strike.

"Come on, you can't hit me?" I ask, appalled. "I _know _you can do better."

It's exhilarating and alarming to see his flesh almost immediately turns a brilliant red.

Instead of using his hammer, though, the boy's hand shoots like a snake, and wraps it around my throat. Immediately, my head is screaming with pain. My windpipe will snap. My lungs with explode. He sinks his sharp fingernails into my skin, pushing a scream of pain into my lungs. Blood wets my skin.

The tribute tosses me onto the ground, and I land on my hands and knees. The boy grunts, his blazing eyes on me, and takes a sweep aimed for me. I roll about a foot over, and it thuds dully as it sinks into the ground, several inches from my ribcage. I shoot off the ground, and hit his wrist with the shaft of my spear as hard as I can. It's almost a single fluid motion, like taking a skullfish in District Four. Sometimes you have to knock it dead because it's impossible to pierce its thick scales.

He howls in pain, and renews his attack threefold. I look to Senneth as I side-step his second swipe.

He barely nods.

On the third strike, the boy is at his most powerful yet. His frustration has set his skin aflame, and I cringe as the hammer screams close to my shoulder. It's his most powerful yet: the broadside of the metal hammer connects to the ground thunderously.

Then, the shaft of my spear finds his shoulder.

A faint crack of bone.

The boy turns his head.

Senneth's scimitar flashes.

One side of his face burns red.

Now, the other drips it.

The boy from District Seven is screaming, cursing, ripping the air apart with his voice. Clutching the hammer for support, he staggers backwards. He blinks at us with his uncovered eye, angry, stunned. Senneth strikes him again, and this time a dark red line is over the right side of his chest. It starts to thicken, and red blooms black across the green of his shirt. Senneth raises his bloodied scimitar a third time, but my hand is reflexively on his forearm.

Senneth turns to me, and snaps, "What?" Our eyes argue a few seconds, and every sound, every cry, every clash, goes away. I open my mouth, but then, with unnecessary force, he rips his arm out of my grasp. When Senneth turns back to the tribute, he's almost a hundred paces in the distance.

"Shit, Liam. Look what you did!" Senneth hisses, pointing his scimitar at the boy. "You can't keep letting them get away from that. The girl with the bag, and now him...!" He belts his scimitar, and then, with a scolding air: "You're going to have to kill them yourself. It's better than wounding them and then hoping nature takes care of the rest." Senneth says all of this hotly and very fast.

He's already walking towards the Cornucopia."I wasn't…" I don't finish. With all the adrenaline pumping through me, the pain of my bloodied and bruised neck, the chaos going around, I can hardly decide on what to say. "…that was Vera's partner."

"So? He wasn't in our alliance."

I let the words hang there, not wanting to acknowledge them. Senneth stops, waiting, seeing what I'm going to say, then lets it drop.

A little more calmly now, "Let's see what's inside the Cornucopia."

"Senneth?"

"What, now?"

"Everyone's gone."

Senneth, still frustrated, scans the area in disbelief. Dust is still in the air, though some of it has settled. Blood is splattered all over the ground, with several knives and tins strewn about. There's a small wind that blows across the plateau, and sparse trees in the distance shift uncomfortably. In the time it's taken us to wound the boy from Seven and argue, the entire field has cleared.

Except for the bodies.

I do a quick count in my head. I heard two cannons, and a couple more over the fight. Four boys, and three girls. Seven in all.

"Damn it." Seven is a low number for a bloodbath. Usually the total can be anywhere from ten to twelve; even fourteen for the first day isn't unheard of. But Seven? Without a doubt it's because the tributes are all better fed, better bred, and better trained this year. It went without saying that these Games would be the most difficult yet, and certainly, they haven't failed to meet expectations.

Seven gone. Seventeen left.

The total death toll almost completely drains Senneth's face of color. Clearly, he wasn't expecting such a low number, either. "Well, maybe the other two will die tonight…" he trails off. Senneth renews his tone. "Come on, let's still go. Something might have been left behind in the Cornucopia."

I belt one of the knives I first come upon on our walk to the Cornucopia. It's a good hunting knife, and looks sturdy enough. We're almost to the stone-carved Cornucopia when I notice a pack by the body of a girl. She's laying face-down, hand inches from the straps, a dagger in her back. Senneth, without any hesitation, picks it up and keeps on walking. Most of the supplies and weapons have been cleared, but the things from deep within the Cornucopia are typically the last to go. We walk along the white stone side of the structure, and I run a hand along it. The smooth, sun-warmed stone is faintly familiar.

Senneth and I come to the edge of the Cornucopia's lip, our shadows trailing like ghosts.

I turn to enter, but suddenly the sky is pushing itself away from me; I'm falling backwards.

A searing pain radiates through my head from my temple.

I'm on the ground.

And so is Hudson.

We both look to each other, and then realize that we both must have collided. I look up, and Senneth standing behind me. In front of me, to the back of Hudson, are three figures that I can't see for the sun in my eyes. They stand over me, looming like surgeons. Then, the tallest steps towards me, and blocks the sun with its massive frame.

Cyrus.

It dawns slowly on me. The plateau wasn't empty. The Careers were just in the Cornucopia, picking it clean, hidden from view. And we've caught them on their way out.

"Well, what a pleasant surprise." Hudson sneers as he pushes himself off the ground. He takes a moment to pat the dust off his pants. "I wasn't expecting to _run_ into my favorite person so soon."

I feel Senneth hook his arms under mine and hoist me up. For a moment, annoyance flashes through me at his aid. I use more force than necessary on my part, and pick my spear up from the ground. "That makes two of us."

Hudson and Cyrus are both armed with impressive longswords strapped to their hips. Hudson and Rowen both are wearing heavy-looking packs. It's then I notice Rowen sliding her thumb along the flat of her six-inch serrated hunting knife, looking intensely interested. She catches my gaze.

"Liam." Rowen says my name with a cloyingly sweet smile and a sharp undertone.

I notice that Hudson is absolutely livid, his skin having a red undertone. His fist is wrapped around the hilt of his sword, an inch of silver blade drawn out of the sheath.

"Rowen." I reply coldly.

Hudson steps in front of her almost the same moment I say her name, his sword now drawn half way. "Don't say her name. You have no right."

I furrow my brow, and look to Cyrus. His eyes lock onto mine, cold and gray, but it offers no explanation to Hudson's anger. He just smiles sinisterly and folds his arms across his chest. Hudson's white teeth are almost bared, and the snarl on his face draws deep lines into his skin. It then hits me that Hudson doesn't know about Rowen's duplicity. No, he must be under the impression I kissed Rowen, or did something to jeopardize the feelings of his District partner for him.

Hudson takes a step towards me, Cyrus raising his eyebrows slightly, impressed by his ally's uncharacteristic display of aggression. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

Then, as if to answer, something whistles through the air, reflects the light of the sun, and plants itself at Hudson's feet. We all look down. It's an axe.

"There's one." Vera says with a grin as she walks towards us from behind the other side of the Cornucopia's massive body. She holds up a second axe in her other hand. "Need two?"

Hudson smirks, amused. He even allows Vera to walk right in front of him and pick up her axe, placing it back in its hilt on her back. She takes the time to smooth out her silky black hair and turns to us. "What'd I miss?" she asks. I furrow my brow. Something in her tone has caught me off-guard, but I can't pinpoint what is. Is she too innocent? Calm? Either way, it doesn't seem to fit her words just right.

"Not a lot," Senneth replies sourly, apparently not detecting the same as me. "Just having a little chat."

In a moment, everything changes.

A breath of silence.

Something moves out of the corner of my eye.

Hudson's drawn his blade, and the cold steel is pressed against my neck, the edge biting into my skin through the film of dried blood, sweat, and dirt. He rotates his wrist, twisting the blade, and it sinks through the first layer of flesh. I grind my teeth together at the painful sting. Not daring to turn my head, I hear Senneth and Vera brandish their respective weapons. It's too dangerous to do anything, on my part, or on Vera's or Senneth's. Hudson would have my neck severed before any of us move an inch.

"I wonder how your girlfriend would like you getting shipped home in pieces." Hudson smiles wickedly, his eyes mad. "Or maybe I should cut out your heart, and give it to her myself."

"God, Hudson, just stop it."

Lena's words surprise everyone. Hudson turns his head slightly, and the pressure of the sword's blade lessens on my neck. She's been in the back of the group, behind Rowen and Cyrus, and hasn't said a word until now. In all actuality, it's probably the most verbose sentence she's said this entire time.

"What?" he asks in a deadpan.

She walks forward, slender and almost as tall as Hudson or Cyrus, and looks into his eyes almost face-to-face as a result. "What do you think you're doing?"

Hudson's expression falls; he's at a loss for words.

Lena sighs and gestures to his sword against my neck. "So you kill Romeo, and then what? We still have him and Vera to deal with." She nods towards Senneth and Vera standing to the side of me.

"Romeo?" I manage to say, and wince as the blade shifts against the raw, shallow line in my skin the blade has formed. Lena doesn't acknowledge me.

"Why are you risking a fight on the first day?" She asks more angrily. "Let the Gamemakers or someone else take care of them before we do. It's that, or we risk someone getting hurt on the first day." She steps back, surveying the boy's blade in my neck with observant eyes, almost like she and Hudson are in the middle of a chess game. "You're choice."

Hudson shifts uncomfortably, effectively made the fool of his group. Obviously torn, he transfers his weight from one foot to the other, and even these small movements make small cuts in my skin from the sword.

He takes a long breath, and the tension in the air hovers over us, pushing us, anyone, to do something. My mind goes to Elise, and if she is watching, what she might be doing in this moment. The image of her, the promises I made to everyone back at home, slows my heart, steadies my lungs. Clears my thoughts. It steels me.

The blade leaves my neck.

* * *

**Author's Note: I should mention that I'm not very satisfied with the chapter. Maybe because it's action-oriented, and I still wanted it to have imagery while being fast-paced and sudden, etc. Also having Liam's inexperience come through, i.e. his lack of swiftness and general ineptness at making a kill. Please, please, PLEASE if you have feedback, especially for this chapter, lemme know! Thank you so much. - BTM**


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